


A Corset in Congress

by rubyjean_jacket



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Genderbending, Hamilton Lyrics, Hamilton References, Multi, historically inaccurate but you knew that already
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 49
Words: 61,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24168673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyjean_jacket/pseuds/rubyjean_jacket
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Angelica Schuyler, Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, Alexander Hamilton/Maria Reynolds, Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette/Hercules Mulligan, Thomas Jefferson/James Madison
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	1. Alexandra Hamilton

Burr's POV

The curtain's open, the lights are up. It's time for me to start the story. Straightening my jacket and clearing my throat, I begin.

"How does a bastard, orphan, spawn of a whore and a Scotswoman, dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot in the Caribbean by providence, impoverished in squalor, grow up to me a hero and a scholar?"

As I finish my bit, another man steps forward to add to my wonderings. He stands at attention, a soldier, and in the light you can clearly see the dusting of freckles on his nose and cheeks. 

"The ten-dollar Founding 'Father' without a father got a lot farther by working a lot harder, by being a lot smarter, by being a self-starter. By fourteen, they placed her in charge of a trading charter."

Next up is a man in a loud purple suit, wild hair flowing free, and a smirk.

"And everyday while slaves were being slaughtered and carted across the waves, she struggled and kept her guard up. Inside she was longing for something to be a part of. The sister was ready to beg, borrow or barter."

Another comes forward. "Then a hurricane came, and devastation rained. Our girl saw her future drip, dripping down the drain. Put a pencil to her temple, connected it to her brain, and she wrote her first refrain, a testament to her pain." As he finished, his eyes started to water and he let out an earth-shattering sneeze.

Rolling my eyes, I continue on in the narrative. "Well, the word got around, they said, 'This kid is insane, man!" Took up a collection just to send her to the mainland. 'Get your education, don't forget from whence you came, ma'am, and the world's gonna know your name. What's your name, ma'am?'"

And then she steps out into the light, and she is stunning. She holds her head high, her eyes she keeps alight, and it is with pride she contributes her segment.

"Alexandra Hamilton. My name is Alexandra Hamilton. And there's a million things I haven't done, but just you wait, just you wait..."

The wealthy Elijah Schuyler adds his clear, sweet voice to the mix, earning murmurs and gasps as he does so. With a sort of resignation, his eyes kind, he commences his verse.

"When she was ten her father split, full of it, debt-ridden. Two years later see Alex and her mother bed-ridden, half-dead, sitting in their own sick, the scent thick...

"And Alex got better but her mother went quick."

The air is silent for a moment, then, "Moved in with a cousin, the cousin committed suicide. Left her with nothing but ruined pride, something new inside. A voice saying, 'Alex, you gotta fend for yourself,' she started retreating and reading every treatise on the shelf," says America's first president, a fatherly look settled on his features.

And it's back to me. "There would have been nothing left to do for someone less astute. She woulda been dead or destitute without a cent of restitution. Started working, clerking for her late mother's landlord. Trading sugar cane and rum and all the things she can't afford.

"Scamming for every book she can get her hands on, planning for the future. See her now as she stands on the bow of a ship heading to a new land.

"In New York you can be a new man--"

Alexandra interrupts, her anticipation obvious in everything from her smile, to her stance, to the tone in her voice as she yells, "Just you wait!"

Then all of us together launch into a call-and-response, the company first, then Alexandra completing the phrase. 

"In New York you can be a new man--"

"Just you wait!"

"In New York you can be a new man! In New York! New York!"

"Just you wait!" 

Then together we chant the next verse, strong in our unity, and the sound of it sends chills down my spine.

"Alexandra Hamilton, we are waiting in the wings for you. You could never back down, you never learned to take your time!

"Oh, Alexandra Hamilton, when America sings for you, will they know what you overcame? Will them know you rewrote the game? The world will never be the same..."

"The ship is in the harbour now, see if you can spot 'em!" I scream, completely immersed in the moment. "Another immigrant coming up from the bottom!

"Her enemies destroyed her rep, America forgot her!"

"We fought with her!" chorused the dark-skinned sick man and the loud one in purple.

Next is the man with freckles. "Me? I died for her!" he shouts, proud of his service.

"Me? I loved her!" said Elijah, as well as his brother and sister. 

George Washington exclaims, "Me? I trusted her!"

Finally it's my turn. Guilt boils in my stomach and my throat is scratchy.

"And me? I'm the damn fool who shot her!"

The ensemble continues. "There's a million things I haven't done, but just you wait!"

"What's your name, ma'am?" I ask, preparing myself for the ear-splitting finale.

"ALEXANDRA HAMILTON!"


	2. Aaron Burr, Sir

Burr's POV

1776, New York City.

"Pardon me, are you Aaron Burr, sir?" asks a woman hurrying up behind me. Her long black hair is in disarray as she struggles to catch up to my long strides. Her glasses are perched precariously on her nose, and as she looks up at me, I can see that her brown eyes have a harried look, as if she's been through tough times.

I frown, leery of what a woman like her would want from me. "That depends, who's asking?" I shoot back, not bothering to hide my suspicion.

She rushes to reassure me, stumbling over her words as she does so. "Oh, well sure, sir. I'm Alexandra Hamilton, I'm at your service, sir," she pulls off a hurried, sloppy half-curtsy while continuing to explain. "I've been looking for you."

I smile, amused at her manner around me. Alexandra's wound tighter than a spring, probably terrified of saying the wrong thing.

"I'm getting nervous," I joke, but she keeps on going, completely brushing off my attempt at lightening the mood.

"Sir, I heard your name at Princeton." Interesting. I didn't think they accepted women, I muse, as she continues her tale. "I was seeking an accelerated course of study when I got sort of out of sorts with a buddy of yours. I may have punched him," I raise my eyebrows, and she hurries to redeem herself, gesturing wildly with her hands as she does so, "it's a blur, sir. He handles the financials?"

I sigh, regretting what I have to say next. "You punched the bursar?" Very funny. It rhymes. So hilarious.

Instead of noticing, she lights up. "Yes! I wanted to do what you did-- graduate in two and join the Revolution! He looked at me like I was stupid, I'm NOT stupid!" She says quickly, face flushing red. Like there was any doubt that she was anything but sharp-witted.

Alexandra's not done, though. She looks directly at me, as if she's trying to see what makes me so special. "So how'd you do it? How'd you graduate so fast?" She inquires, determined to get an answer out of me.

Heaving another sigh, I relent. "It was my parents' dying wish before they passed."

Again my female companion surprises me. I expect a somber expression and condolences, not a grin. "You're an orphan! Of course! I'm an orphan!" I'm perplexed, but she keeps on going, a steamroller.

"God, I wish there was a war, then we could prove that we're worth more than anyone bargained for--"

"Can I buy you a drink?" I interrupt, flashing Alexandra a charming smile. I know it won't go anywhere, since it seems like she's focused on achieving her goals, not courting, but it looks like she could use a stiff drink right about now. 

Her tired eyes are full of gratitude. "That would be nice," she sighs, brushing stray strands of silky hair out of her face.

I motion in the direction of the bar, and we begin to head towards it. "While we're talking, let me offer you so free advice."

Pulling out a stool at the counter, I let her sit first, before lowering myself into my own seat. When we are both settled, with ice-cold drinks at our fingertips, I start.

"Talk less," I suggest.

She purses her lips. "What?"

Since I know she heard me correctly, I persist. "Smile more." I demonstrate, shining a hundred-watt beam at her.

I can see she's at a loss for words. This whole approach is likely nothing like Alexandra Hamilton would ever consider.

"Ha," she manages finally, twirling her glass between her fingers, mulling the idea over.

Smiling softly, I deliver my last piece of wisdom, "Don't let them know what you're against or what you're for."

Suddenly her head snaps up, fire in her eyes. When she speaks again, her voice has a dangerous tone, a sharp edge to it. "You can't be serious."

Oh, but I am. "You want to get ahead," I remind her gently, putting out a calming hand to show that I mean no offense.

All she can manage is a breathless confirmation as she searches my face like it holds the answers she so desperately needs, never turning her gaze away.

Confident now, I deliver my punchline. "Fools who run their mouths off wind up dead." Alexandra nods in complete agreement, and I know I've converted her to my side.

And then the moment's gone, shattered by three overly loud, drunken voices. 

"What time is it?" Screams the leader as he kicks the door in, a stupidly wide grin plastered onto his freckled, wasted face.

Two other men, equally inebriated, shove him the rest of the way through the doorway. "Show time!" They slur in response, giggling and stumbling and hiccuping their way into the bar after their companion.

I curse silently. "Like I said," I mutter darkly, before turning back to my beer.

The two continue to scream "Show time!" until the first man clambers onto a table, flushed from alcohol.

"Yo, I'm John Laurens in the place to be! Two points of Sam Adams but I'm working on three!" That would explain his impaired state, no doubt about it.

"Those redcoats don't want it with me," he bellows, and I stiffen. Britain's a touchy subject 'round here, I think, and Laurens would do well to watch his words.

But John keeps on slandering, exclaiming, "'Cause I'll pop-chicka-plop these cops till I'm free!"

To my utter horror, other tavern occupants start hollering in agreement, slamming their mugs onto he tabletops, and I see Alexandra tapping her foot along with the miniature riot, a strangely determined look on her face as she adds her voice to the general ruckus of rough farmers and dirty businessmen surrounding us. I'm no loyalist, but this type of protesting is what gets people like Laurens killed. And people like me, who just happen to be in the wrong placement the wrong time.

Before I can voice my displeasure, one or the other men stands to replace Laurens. His untamable poof of hair is barely contained in a ponytail, and his eyes twinkle above a face filled with smile-wrinkles and a carefully trimmed beard. I move to stop him, but quit, knowing it's too late before I even clear the counter. Instead I watch the scene play out in fascinated outrage.

"Oui, oui, mon ami, je m'appelle Lafayette, the Lancelot of the Revolutionary set! I came from afar just to say bonsoir, tell the king, 'Casse-toi!' Who is the best? C'est moi."

Cheers greet the Frenchman as he retakes his seat, all the while grinning like a madman. What is wrong with him? Does he want to be sent back home?

Just as I'm thinking it, an animalistic growl splits the air. It takes a few moments to realize it's the third, dark-skinned "Revolutionary", and a full minute for my blood to cool.

"Brrrah! Brrrah! I am Hercules Mulligan, up in it, loving it, heard your mother said, "Come again!" Lock up your daughters and horses, of courses it's hard to have intercourse over four sets of corsets!"

I'm absolutely disgusted. This man and the rabble hooting around me are reflections of the whole Revolution movement-- uncultured swine full of nothing but disrespect. I look over at Alexandra and see, to my shock, she's laughing full-out, drumming along on the table.

"Wow," is all she gets out, her eyes shining for he first time tonight for a reason I can't quite comprehend. Maybe she's impressed by their willingness to speak their minds? I really can't tell.

"No more sex," cries Laurens. Thank God, I think, relieved, "pour me another brew, son! Let's raise a couple more..." He trails off, and the three of them come crashing back in together.

"To the Revolution!"

Then Laurens turns and sees me, and it all falls apart. He draws close to me, a wide grin breaking out over his freckled features. Oh, I so don't have time for this.

"Well, if it ain't the prodigy of Princeton College, Aaron Burr! Give us a verse, drop some knowledge," he suggests, sounding g friendly enough, but I sense an underlying challenge.

Quickly I stand, drain my drink,and brush off my pants in preparation to leave. I figure I'll just throw some quick insults, dodge the banter, and be off on my merry way.

"Good luck with that," I say shortly, my voice laced with scorn. "You're taking a stand. You about, I'ma sit, we'll see where we land." 

As I shoulder my way past a booing Lafayette and Mulligan Laurens fires off a parting jab.

"Burr, the Revolution's imment, what do you stall for?"

I hesitate in my reply, but another speaker doesn't.

"If you stand for nothing, Burr, what'll you fall for?"

As I pivot slowly around to face my accuser, my jaw drops. I'm faintly aware of the men behind me chanting (Who are you?), but I can't make out individual words. My head is spinning. I feel nauseous.

In front of me is Hamilton.

Opposing me is Hamilton.

I can't imagine the look on my face right now. Her betrayal shouldn't hurt me, I've only known her a few minutes, but it does, and I'm left a mess.

I return to the counter in a daze. I must have ordered more alcohol, because a glass is pressed into my clammy palm. Alexandra could get seriously hurt by this Revolution business, I worry, still paced out. She thinks it's a game? The Loyalists and redcoats will tear her apart!

Then I shrug. The drink has cleared my head. She chose her side. She sealed her fate. It's no longer any concern of mine.

And I down the shot.


	3. My Shot

Burr's POV

Alexandra's sauntered over to join the three men, who are looking at her with expressions that I don't like. Lafayette is completely in awe, impressed with the courage she's shown in stating her controversial opinion. Mulligan's slamming his hand on the tables, whooping, encouraging her to stand for what she believes in.

And Laurens... well, he's helpless.

"I am not throwing away my shot! I am not throwing away my shot? Ayo I'm just like my country, I'm young scrappy and hungry, and I'm not throwing away my shot!" She raps, words flying out of her mouth effortlessly, leaving the rest of us gaping.

"I'ma get a scholarship to King's College. I prob'ly shouldn't brag, but dag, I amaze and astonish! The problem is I gotta lot of brains but no polish! I gotta holler just to be heard, with every word I drop knowledge!"

I feel a pang of empathy. She's a bastard, orphan, immigrant, and a woman. Of course it's hard to be heard when people in power are unwilling to listen.

Heads are nodding, feet are tapping, and Alexandra jumps on top of a table, red in the face from all the excitement. Replacing her former exhaustion is a new light, and the atmosphere is energizing her, refueling her.

"I'm a diamond in the rough, a shiny piece of coal, trying to meet my goal. My power of speech? Unimpeachable! Only nineteen, but my mind is older. These New York streets get colder, I shoulder, every burden, every disadvantage. I have learned to manage! I don't have a gun to brandish, I walk these streets famished! The plan is to fan this spark into a flame, but damn, it's getting dark so let me spell out my name!

"I am the--"

But before she can finish, the others join in. This will be interesting, I think, amused. They're going to trip over each other. This will be fun. I order another drink, and relax for the first time since this fiasco started.

"A-L-E-X-A-N-D," they start out strong, but as they reach the end of her name they grow uncertain, and they fall out of time with each other. "E-R-ah...?"

Somehow Alexandra recovers, but not before glaring at her companions as if to say, Really? It's not that difficult! She smooths back her hair, which has grown even wilder, putting her glasses safely into her breast pocket, to avoid them slipping off her nose in the excitement.

"We are, uh, meant to be!" she improvises, before continuing, regaining strength with every line, infusing her words with righteous indignation and wild gesticulations. "A colony that runs independently! Meanwhile Britain keeps shitting on us endlessly! Essentially, they tax us relentlessly, then King Gorge turns around, runs a spending spree! They ain't never gonna set our descendants free, so there WILL be a Revolution in this century! Enter me!"

Laurens, Lafayette, and Mulligan chime in, "She says in parentheses," which, I admit, is cleverer than I expected from a bunch of smashed dreamers.

"Don't be shocked when your hist'ry book mentions me! I will lay down my life if it sets us free! Eventually you'll see my ascendancy!" She promises, her mask of selfless revolutionary slipping as I get a glimpse at the ugly truth-- she's full of pride. That'll be her downfall, I predict. Just you wait.

Then she's back to being the model of a dissatisfied American colonist, as she and Laurens start on what I like to think of as the chorus, if this were a musical. Which it isn't, of course, it's just plain old, regular life.

"I am not throwing away my shot! I am not throwing away my shot! Ayo I'm just like my country, I'm young, scrappy and hungry, and I'm not throwing away my shot!"

Mulligan and Lafayette join them. "I am not throwing away my shot! I am not throwing away my shot! Ayo I'm just like my country, I'm young, scrappy and hungry, and I'm not throwing away my shot! It's time to take a shot!"

The Frenchman steps forward, after chugging an entire bottle of wine, because Mulligan whispered in his ear that he couldn't. As the empty clinks on the hardwood floor, he starts a new stanza, his voice still clear despite the overload of liquor in his system.

"I dream of life without a monarchy. The unrest in France will lead to 'onarchy! "Onarchy?" He turns to his compatriots, suddenly unsure. "How you say? Oh. Anarchy! When I fight I make the other side panicky with my--" He stops, signaling for the others to join him, "shot!"

Mulligan takes his turn, opting again for a brash approach, complete with headbanging, so everyone can see his black bandanna. "Yo, I'm a tailor's apprentice, and I've got y'all knuckleheads in loco parentis. I'm joining the rebellion cause I know its my change to socially advance instead of sewing some pants. I'm gonna take a--"

And then all four together again, "Shot!"

At this point I'm fine with where this is going. Sure, I know it's not exactly safe, but everyone here seems to be having a good enough time, laughing and cheering and yelling, "SHOT!" along with the revolutionaries. I'm about to decide to just leave them be, when I hear Laurens put a noose around his neck.

"But we'll never be truly free until those in bondage have the same rights as you and me," I hear those words, as does the rest of the building, and men stiffen. They stop cheering in agreement. Instantly the atmosphere grows hostile, and I'm on the verge of an anxiety attack.

Laurens doesn't notice. "You and I, do or die! Wait 'til I sally in on a stallion with the first black battalion! Have another--"

"SHOT!"

Panicking full-out, terrified of getting caught in situation that might be damaging to my (or Alexandra's, but I'm not willing to admit that) health, reputation, or finances, I cut them off, urging them to be more careful.

"Geniuses, lower your voices," I hiss, a little pale. "You keep out of trouble and you double your choices." Mulligan growls in opposition and I hurry to reassure him. "I'm with you, but the situation is fraught. You've got to be carefully taught: if you talk you're gonna get shot!"

Silence falls for a moment, but then Alexandra laughs in my face. A scornful, fight me kind of laugh. It makes my stomach churn and my throat burn.

"Burr, look what we've got. Mister Lafayette, hard rock like Lancelot," she punches him playfully in the bicep, feigning bruised knuckles, earning a huge grin from the Frenchman. Turning next to the tailor's apprentice, she comments, "I think your pants look hot."

Then Laurens. She sidles up next to him, very close, and his face flushes with heat. Smiling, she declares, "Laurens, I like you a lot. Let's hatch a plot blacker than the kettle calling the pot!

"What are the odds the gods would put us all in one spot?" She asks, conveniently overlooking the fact that two of their number are actually immigrants. "Popping a squat on conventional wisdom, like it or not. A bunch of revolutionary manumission abolitionists! Show me a position, show me where the ammunition is!"

After crashing to an epic finale, the whole room goes silent. Her face falls, hands falling to her sides as she misinterprets the lack of response as a negative reaction, when really, we are all just stunned.

"Oh, am I talking too loud? Sometimes I get over-excited," she mumbles, shame-faced. In her dejection she looks absolutely remarkable, "shoot off at the mouth. I never had a group of friends before. I promise that I'll make y'all proud."

As usual, it's Laurens who ends the moment. "Let's get this gal in front of a crowd!"

Alexandra lights up, and Laurens, Mulligan, Lafayette join her for the chorus.

"I am not throwing away my shot! I am not throwing away my shot! Ayo I'm just like my country, I'm young, scrappy and hungry, and I'm not throwing away my shot!"

People in the crowd start to echo the statement, singing with the four, getting louder and louder as they do so. "I am not throwing away my shot! I am not throwing away my shot! Ayo I'm just like my country, I'm young, scrappy and hungry, and I'm not throwing away my shot!"

Right before the club boils over, Laurens changes the mood. I don't really like the guy, but you have to admire the way he works the crowd. They echo everything he says, and gradually become solemn.

"Everybody sing: whoa, whoa, whoa! (Whoa, whoa, whoa....)

"Hey! Whoa! (Whoa....)

"Whoo! Whoa! (Whoa....)

"Ay, let 'em hear ya! (Yea....)

"Let's go!"

He continues, changing it up a little this time. "I said shout it to the rooftops! Said to the rooftops! Come on!" He urges them, "Come on, let's go!"

Then Laurens launches into a verse, more somber this time. His expression morphs into one more careworn and aged as he says, "Rise up! When you're living on your knees you rise up! Tell your brother that he's gotta rise up! Tell your sister that she's gotta rise up!

"When are these colonies gonna rise up? When are these colonies gonna rise up? When are these colonies gonna rise up? When are these colonies gonna rise up?"

Alexandra steps forward, and when she opens her mouth, the most heartbreaking speech comes out. "I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory. When's it's gonna get me? In my sleep? Seven feet ahead of me? If I see it coming, do I run or do I let it be? Is it like a beat without a melody?"

My jaw is on the floor, but she's still at it, almost unaware of the rest of the room as she moves us burly men almost to tears. "See, I never thought I'd live past twenty. Where I come from some get half as many. Ask anybody why we livin' fast and we laugh, reach for a flask. We have to make this moment last, that's plenty.

"Scratch that," her voice comes back strong. "This is not a moment, it's the movement. Where all the hungriest people with something to prove went. Foes oppose us, we take an honest stand. We roll like Moses, claimin' our Promised Land!

"And? If we win our independence? Is that a guarantee of freedom for our descendants?" I've never thought about it before. Maybe she has a point, one that I'd never think of. "Or will the blood we shed begin an endless cycle of vengeance and death with no defendants?"

No one says a word. We can all imagine the carnage.

"I know the action in the street is exciting, but Jesus, between all the bleeding and fighting, I've been reading and writing! We need to handle our financial situation!  
Are we a nation of states? What's the state of our nation?"

"I'm past patiently waiting!" She spits out, shaking her fist, her eyes hard. "I'm passionately smashing every expectation! Every action's an act of creation! I'm laughing in the face of casualties and sorrow! For the first time, I'm thinking past tomorrow!"

Alexandra decides to bring it home with the chorus, all the patrons joining in.

"And I am not throwin' away my shot! I am not throwin' away my shot! Hey, yo, I'm just like my country, I'm young, scrappy, and hungry, and I'm not throwin' away my shot!"

Alexandra and her new friends say this next part in unison, with the crowd echoing behind them.

"We gonna rise up; time to take a shot! (Not thrown' away my shot!)

"We gonna rise up; time to take a shot! (Not throwin' away my shot!)

"We gonna (rise up, rise up!)"

"It's time to take a shot!" She yells, infusing the crowd with enegery as her wild eyes flash and her black hair whips around.

"Rise up, rise up," chants the crowd.

"It's time to take a shot!" The four respond.

"Rise up, rise up! Whoa!"

Revolutionaries again: "Time to take a shot!"

The crowd echoes with, "Rise up!"

Hamilton leads her crew to the last portion. "Take a shot, a shot, a shot! Ayo, it's time to take a shot! Time to take a shot! And I am not throwing away my..." They trail off, and the mob finishes it for them.

"Not throwing away my shot!"


	4. The Story of Tonight

Laurens' POV

Burr stalks out of the building, hands shaking, but I hardly notice. All I see is Alexandra, standing up for her beliefs, swearing that she'll never be silenced by injustice. She holds her head high, and isn't afraid to get her hands dirty. The boys like her, and that has to count for something, right?

She's not going to love you, a little nagging voice says in the back of my head. You're not what she needs. She needs someone with wealth, someone with standing. To her, you're a means to an end, a little toy soldier to move around.

I know the voice is right, so I drop it, focusing instead on Alexandra's favourite topic, the Revolution. Faintly I hear her say something. I snap out of it, and bring myself back to reality.

She's sitting on a stool next to Lafayette and Hercules, clinking her glass against theirs, and she says these bittersweet words, "I may not live to see our glory!"

I want to cry out, No, don't think like that! You're wonderful and amazing, and I don't know what the Revolution would do without you! but I can't. I have to just echo my compatriots as they repeat the line, faking an enthusiasm I don't quite feel.

"I may not live to see our glory," we repeat, despondent.

"But I will gladly join the fight!" She continues, cheering me up considerably. Now that we're discussing a future less bleak, us three happily join in.

"And when our children tell our story...

"They'll tell the story of tonight!" Alexandra sings, perfectly confident in what the future holds for her. I find myself wishing that I could have that calm assurance.

Hercules, in one of his wisest moments, calls over the barmaid. "Let's have another round tonight!" He suggests, a wide but somewhat subdued smile on his face.

Lafayette readily agrees. Honestly, he can drink all of us under the table. "Let's have another round tonight!" 

To all our surprise, Alexandra concedes. "Let's have another round tonight," she says, shrugging.

The serving girl comes back with our drinks. They're my favourite, Sam Adams, and we stop for a minute, chattering softly to each other and tenants. It's quiet, friendly. I'm sitting right next to Alexandra, breathing in her scent. It's far more intoxicating than any liquor. 

Impulsively, I lean forward to better absorb her scent. When she looks at me funny, I fumble.

"Raise a glass to freedom!" I'm quick in my improvising, and Alexandra lights up. My friends shout in agreement as I continue, more passionate in every line.

"Something they can never take away!" I think of all the slaves, and resolve to fight for them until my last breath.

"No matter what they tell you!" Take that, King George III.

Gesturing around me to my faithful comrades-- Hercules, Lafayette, and, of course, the lovely Alexandra, giving them the credit each one deserves, I add a line. "Raise a glass to the four of us!" 

Hercules joins me for the next part. "Tomorrow there'll be more of us!"

Then Lafayette: "Telling the story of tonight!"

Alexandra now, setting my heart beating faster. "They'll tell the story of tonight."

She drops back out, letting the rest of us carry the torch for a while. We've known each other for what seems like forever, so we easily fit into a beautiful unison, knowing just the right volume to keep the phrases balanced.

"Raise a glass to freedom! Something they can never take away!"

"No matter what they tell you!" Butting in is Alexandra, but it seems like she belongs there, at the front, leading us. I know she'll do a better job than me already.

Man, I've fallen hard. Girl just took my spot in the friend group, and I'm over here like, Looking forward to working with you as your second-in-command. Seriously, who does that?

I decide I need to retake control of this situation. "Raise a glass to the four of us!" I call loudly, but not aggressively, as I only have so many companions, and I'd rather not lose them all because of petty disagreements.

"Tomorrow there'll be more of us!" All of us chorus, grinning like madmen. Any animosity I may have felt towards Alexandra instantly disintegrates when she shoots me a ten thousand dollar smile.

Together, the remarkable young woman and I sing the next line, our faces coming closer with each word. "Telling the story of tonight!"

I realize that I won't be able to last under this pressure. She's so much better-- at everything. Everything. Too close is her hand, and it takes every muscle in my body to refrain from grasping it and never letting go. Ever.

Thankfully the two greatest friends in the world notice my unsaid SOS, and immediately come to my aid. Hercules and Lafayette crash into our soft tune with all the drunken testosterone they can muster, disrupting the black magic she hast cast on me.

"Let's have another round tonight!"

Effortlessly slipping into a call-and-echo, Alexandra and I start, with Lafayette and Hercules coming in after us.

"They'll tell the story of tonight! (Raise a glass to freedom!)

"They'll tell the story of tonight! (Raise a glass to freedom! They'll tell the story of--)

"They'll tell the story of tonight."

And in the silence of that moment, I see my chance. All of us sing the last word softly, and it's possibly the safest I've felt in New York.

"...tonight..."

Then the sound peters out, and Alexandra says she has to dash, then Hercules, then finally my dedicated drinking buddy Lafayette. He looks at me sadly before he leaves, and I'm left alone with the horrifying truth.

I missed my chance.

I threw away my shot.


	5. The Schuyler Siblings

Back to Burr's POV

Taking a deep breath of the crisp, clear air, I sigh. This is the best time of the year, I reflect, when the mosquitoes are out and the nights are light. 

As I stroll down the street, something catches my eye. A cheery yellow with a splash of gold, maybe on the buttons? I tilt my head, and lean over in attempt to get a better glimpse at what I saw out of my peripheral vision. Then it clicks. Not because I saw anything, but rather I heard the distinct rumbling and squeaking of a carriage, and the neighs of a thoroughbred. Ah, there it is; right on time.

The first thing you need to learn about New York is this: there's nothing rich folk love more than going downtown and slumming it with the poor. They pull up their carriages and gawk at the students in the common just to watch them talk!

Maybe it makes them feel more grateful for their wealth? Or maybe open their eyes to the world around them? I really have no clue. It's always seemed a bit strange to me, but it is what it is.

The phantom yellow returns for only a second, but this time it comes with dark almond hair and sweet, high laughter, reminding me of someone else well-off.

Take Philip Schuyler, the man is loaded, but little does he know his children, Peter, Angelica, Elijah, sneak into the city just to watch all of us at work.

Three lavishly-clad figures emerge onto my side street like they've been summoned. As per usual, Angelica looms over the little parade, looking absolutely ravishing in a long, pink dress that fits her darker complexion and black hair perfectly.

"Angelica!" She announces, like I had any doubt.

"Elijah!" says her brother from behind her, Elijah, decked out in a fashionable light blue suit with flecks of silver, and brown hair that falls over his eyes, shaggy. He looks a little unsure, but trusting in his sister.

The last one is wearing the yellow and gold I spotted from earlier. He announces who he is with an aggressive, "And Peter!" as if he's used to being loud to get noticed.

"The Schuylers," I note, stating the obvious.

While the two older siblings look fascinated as they examine the surroundings, Peter is not impressed. "Daddy said to be home by sundown!" he exclaims, but I can tell that's not the real reason he wants to leave. The atmosphere makes him uneasy, jumpy.

Angelica laughs, brushing off the youngest's nervousness. "Daddy doesn't need to know," she teases, while simultaneously managing to warn Peter that if he tells, things aren't going to be good for him.

"Daddy said not to go downtown," he persists, and this time Elijah turns to face him, not-so-gently reminding Peter of a previous conversation, his tone brooking no argument.

"Like I said, you're free to go."

Sulking, Peter falls silent, staring at the floor in defiance. Angelica changes the mood with a few awe-filled words to her two brothers.

"But, look around, look around! The Revolution's happening in New York!" She practically yells, the excitement soaking her words as she spreads her arms wide.

Peter's still not having any of it, which I find funny. "It's bad enough Daddy wants to go to war," he mumbles, the very picture of a distraught child. His siblings either don't notice or don't care, as they keep on singing praises.

"People shouting in the square!" cries Elijah, following his sister's lead.

"It's bad enough there'll be violence on our shore!" Peter shoots back, to no avail.

Now it's Angelica who cuts in. "New ideas in the air!

"Look around, look around--"

"Angelica remind me what we're looking for?" Interrupts Elijah impatiently. It seems that just because he agrees with her doesn't mean he has a clue what she's talking about.

Then everyone in the poor section of the city gives me a heart attack as all the men turn around as one and yell collectively, "She's looking for me!" while striking comical "seductive" poses.

Unimpressed, Angelica turns away, all flouncing pink skirts. "Elijah," she says, glaring at the ruffians around her, "I'm looking for a mind at work!" Her implied message is clear, Not a bunch of brainless, disgusting oafs.

Wooh! I'm impressed now. I was before, but even more so. There's nothing like summer in the city, I repeat, an idea forming in my head and a charming smile on my face. Someone in a rush next to someone looking pretty.

Approaching her, I incline my head to her respectfully. When she gives me the What now? look, I launch into my award-winning speech.

"Excuse me, miss, I know it's not funny," I say, with as much dignity aimed to myself as well as her, "but your perfume smells like your daddy's got money. Why're you slumming it in the city in those fancy heels? You searching for an urchin who can give you ideals?"

Rolling her eyes, she scoffs, "Burr, you disgust me."

I crack another grin. "oh, so you've discussed me? I'm a trust fund, baby, you can trust me!"

Angelica now does something do unexpected, I nearly fall over. She turns a shameless bit of flirting into a protest about women's rights! It should completely turn me off, but it only makes me more interested in her, albeit a bit shallowly.

"I've been reading Common Sense by Thomas Paine," she starts, and I'm confused. "So men say that I'm intense or insane? You want a Revolution, I want a revelation! So listen to my declaration!"

On cue, her brothers join in, quoting the pamphlet directly. "'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal!'"

Like a charging bull, Angelica continues by herself. "But when I meet Thomas Jefferson," she declares, "I'ma compel him to include women in the sequel!"

So, after that hit me, Elijah starts in with his own strain. "Look around, look around, at how lucky we are to be alive right now!"

"Look around," Peter had joined his big brother, "look around, at how lucky we are to be alive right now!"

"History is happening in Manhattan and we just happen to be," sing all the Schuylers together, "In the greatest city in the world! In the greatest city in the world!"

They each turn a separate way to tell their bit to someone else, spreading their anticipatory mood across the city. I stand there, stunned. It's a good stunned, but still. I was not in any way prepared for it.

I hear the whole block sing out the last words, and I swear the ground shook and the buildings swayed ever so slightly.

"IN THE GREATEST CITY IN THE WORLD!"

Times sure are changing.


	6. Farmer Refuted

Burr's POV

"Hear ye! Hear ye!"

I curse silently. I'm out in the square, standing next to Laurens, and I see Alexandra eyeing the speaker with judgement. The speaker doesn't seem to notice, which could be a good or bad thing, and the rest of her posse is scattered throughout the small crowd.

He steps up onto a little soapbox and unrolls a scroll. I can tell that the guy isn't a serious contender from the moment he opens his mouth. "My name is Samuel Seabury, and I present, "Free Thoughts on the Proceedings of the Continental Congress'!"

"Heed not the rabble who scream, 'Revolution!' They have not your interest at heart!"

"Oh my god, tear this guy apart," scoffs Mulligan, sidling up to Alexandra. At least he has the decency to be subtle about it.

"Chaos and bloodshed are not a solution," Seabury pleads with the crowds, appealing to their humanity. "Don't let them lead you astray! This Congress does not speak for me!" he practically spits out, venom in his voice.

Alexandra makes a move forward, and I grab her arm, stopping her. "Let him be," I warn.

"They're playing a dangerous game!" She sulks as he continues bashing her cause.

Then when Seabury delivers his last line, Alexandra stiffens. "I pray the King shows you his mercy!"

She turns around slowly on her heel, a murderous glint in her eyes. I realize that they're going to have to scrape pieces of him off the floor for his funeral.

He's blissfully unaware for a few more seconds. "For shame! For shame!"

If I could have stopped her, I would have, but Lafayette's dragged me away by the time she's joined the fray. We argue, but he's not moving, and so I have nothing left to do but watch this play out as it gradually becoming a disaster. She just talks right over him, using Seabury's own words against him. "He'd have you all unravel at the sound of screams, but the Revolution is coming! The have-nots are going to win this!"

"It's hard to listen to you with a straight face," Alexandra mocks him when he stops to take a break, earning cheers and yells from the people surrounding her.

"Chaos and bloodshed already haunt us, and honestly, you shouldn't even talk! And what about Boston? Look at the cost and all that we've lost," she's referring to the absolutely devastating Boston Massacre, "and you talk about Congress?!"

Seabury attempts a comeback, trying to rally supporters. "This Congress does not speak for me!" 

Her next words condemn him. "My dog speaks more elegantly than thee..."

More howls and catcalls answer her insult.

"They're playing a dangerous game," he tries again, even though he's already lost.

"But strangely your mange is the same!"

"I pray the King shows you his mercy!"

"Oh, is he in Jersey?" Alexandra fakes horror, falling to her knees, fearful.

"For shame!"

She rises to her feet, shouting, "For the Revolution!"

"For shame!"

"FOR THE REVOLUTION!" Everyone joins in, throwing things at the utterly demolished Seabury, siding with Alexandra, who is clearly the intellectual superior in this confrontation.

As a testament to his determination, or perhaps his lack of tactical sense, Seabury attempts to salvage what's left of his dignity, which is precious little. He starts to repeat himself a third time, voice shaking, "Heed--"

Alexandra's sick of all of this, as she's not shy about sharing her opinion."If you repeat yourself, I'm going to --"

"Scream--" he chokes out, probably questioning why he's still here.

"Honestly," she snatches the scroll out of his hands, tearing it in half, "please don't read!" Over the cacophony, I can hear Mulligan's distinct roar of approval.

"Have not your interests--"

"Don't modulate the key," this time it's Lafayette's accent who congratulates her, and I wince, because I'm right next to the Frenchman when he says it, "then not debate with me!"

Pushing Seabury off the stand, she takes his place, starting a speech of hers for the Revolution. Seabury's in danger of being stepped on by the crowd of listeners, who are moving with the beat of her proclamation, stomping and cheering. "Why should a tiny island across the sea regulate the price of tea?"

"Alexandra, please," I try, finally freeing myself from Lafayette's clutches. 

Not surprisingly, she's disappointed in my lack of bloodlust. "Burr, I'd rather be divisive than indecisive, drop the niceties!" she scolds, earning a grin from Laurens, who elbows me in the side in a not-so-friendly manner.

"Silence!" It's two British officers, clothed in the red coats. "A message from the King!" they announce.

Great. That's what we need now. A love note from King George III.

"A message from the King!" 

Mulligan and Lafayette are holding back an edgy John Laurens. Briefly I recall that night at the bar, and his promise to "pop chick-a plop" all the cops until the colonies are free from British rule.

"A MESSAGE FROM THE KING!"

Here we go.


	7. You'll Be Back

King George III's POV

You say, I write, seated on my throne, thinking of nothing but my beloved American colonies. I read the letter aloud as I compose it, marveling at my eloquence.

The price of my love's not a price that you're willing to pay. You cry in your tea which you hurl in the sea when you see me go by. Why so sad? I'm genuinely curious. How could anyone be unhappy when they have me?

I continue my message, a frown starting to deepen onto my otherwise flawless, angelic features. Remember we made an arrangement when you went away. Now you're making me mad! Remember, despite our estrangement, I'm your man.

My subjects are unhappy, for some petty reason or another. But am I worried? Oh no, because, as I write, You'll be back, soon you'll see.

You'll remember you belong to me. You'll be back, time will tell. Mark my words. They won't last out there without me. You'll remember that I served you well. Better than they can serve themselves, might I add.

Oceans rise, empires fall. We have seen each other through it all. And when push comes to shove, I will send a fully armed battalion to remind you of my love!

How romantic! How thoughtful!

Well, not really. They think I'm letting them off that easily? They think throwing a few crates into the water is going to change anything? It's not. I'm the best thing to happen to the colonies, despite what they in their puny minds light think. They just can't see the bigger picture. 

The big picture means that if I have to wipe out a few small settlements to prove to America that they can't get rid of me, it's really not that important. People die. It's what they do best.

Da da da dat da dat da da da da ya da  
Da da dat dat da ya da!  
Da da da dat da dat da da da da ya da  
Da da dat dat da...

You say our love is draining and you can't go on! You'll be the one complaining when I am gone...

And no, don't change the subject! Some sixth sense tells me that someone will attempt to disrupt my speech, and I simply can't have that. This will show them not to mess with their King!

Then, quicker than lightning, I'm back to sweet-talking. Am I good at this or what? Because you're my favorite subject! My sweet, submissive subject! My loyal, royal subject forever and ever and ever and ever and ever...

Yeah, that was a warning. Remember the "fully armed battalion"? I have them standing ready.

You'll be back like before. I will fight the fight and win the war. For your love, for your praise. Because after all I've done for them, how can they not? I'm the picture-perfect monarch! And I'll love you till my dying days! 

When you're gone, I'll go mad! So don't throw away this thing we had. Because when push comes to shove, I remind them gently, I will kill your friends and family to remind you of my love.

Da da da dat da dat da da da da ya da  
Da da dat dat da ya da!  
Da da da dat da dat da da da da ya da  
Da da dat—

I pause. This letter is wonderful. Magnificent. Astounding. Some of my best work yet. I should reward myself for this excellent piece of literature. I glance around. My throne room is silent. My sentinels and soldiers stand at attention. All together not the atmosphere I want after this great triumph. 

"Everybody!" I yell, gesturing at my subjects to join me in singing the last refrain. They look a bit shocked, but they remember what happened to the last person who refused my request. All of them join me.

"Da da da dat da dat da da da da ya da! Da da dat dat da ya da! Da da da dat da dat da da da da ya da da da da! Dat dat da ya da!"

Oh yeah. After that, they'll be falling over each other to come prove themselves to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That awkward moment when the lyrics don't translate well...
> 
> Da da da dat da!


	8. Right Hand Man

Burr's POV

The news just came in, and it's not pretty. British Admiral Howe's got troops on the water. Thirty-two thousand troops in New York harbor. I know it won't take much for them to surround our troops, since there are so little of them . I shudder. When they surround our troops-- 

I'm in the camp, a part of the war effort, although right now I'm not really doing much. I'm waiting for an opportunity to show itself. They always do, if you're patient enough. Soldiers scurry about, and every so often I catch a glimpse of a familiar face.

Like now. Alexandra stands up and starts a speech. "As a kid in the Caribbean I wished for a war. I knew that I was poor. I knew it was the only way to--"

She gives a cue and the whole company comes in with the now familiar phrase, "Rise up!"

"If they tell my story," she barrels on, "I am either gonna die on the battlefield in glory or--"

"Rise up!" She smiles, hearing the amount of voices lifted in unity, with a single purpose.

"We will fight for this land, but there's only one man who can give us a command so we can?" She lets the end of her sentence trail off, leaving a question for the soldiers to answer.

And answer they do. "Rise up!"

Bringing it home, she shouts, "Understand? It's the only way to?"

"Rise up! Rise up!"

Now it's my turn. I see an important, if not larger-than-life, figure approach, and seize the moment. Alexandra yells out, "Here he comes!"

"Here comes the general!" Shout the soldiers, standing at attention.

I swoop in. "Ladies and gentlemen!" I bow to men and women alike, before continuing, the soldiers chanting when I pause.

"Here comes the general!"

"The moment you've been waiting for!" 

Here comes the general

Me again: "The pride of Mount Vernon!"

"Here comes the general!"

"George Washington!" Cheers and salutes greet me as the General steps up onto the platform where I had previously been standing. He looks tired, I notice.

"We are outgunned!" He shouts, wasting no time on pleasantries. Expecting a motivational, uplifting speech, the troops let out a few confused murmurs, before being cut off by the man as he continues.

"Outmanned! Outnumbered! Outplanned!

"We gotta make an all out stand! And I'm gonna need a right-hand man!"

Then he turns to me, and whispers into my ear, "Can I be real a second? For just a millisecond?Let down my guard and tell the people how I feel a second?"

Well, now what am I going to say to that? I can't seem to find words, so I nod dumbly, and General Washington returns to addressing the army as a whole. "Now I'm the model of a modern major general, the venerated Virginian veteran whose men are all lining up, to put me up on a pedestal. Writin' letters to relatives, embellishin' my elegance and eloquence. But the elephant is in the room. The truth is in ya face when ya hear the British cannons go--"

"Boom!"As he says it, something blasts a hole through our barricades, and Washington leads men to the battle. Others remain behind, lurking behind bushes and peeking out from behind fortifications.

The General can't fight the British himself, and he screams at them as they duck and run for cover.

"Any hope of success is fleeting. How can I keep leading when the people I'm leading keep retreating? We put a stop to the bleeding as the British take Brooklyn. Knight takes rook, but look!

"We are outgunned! Outmanned! Outnumbered! Outplanned!"

"We gotta make an all out stand!" He yells, but no one is paying him any attention. It's a bit hard to focus when you're getting absolutely pulverized. "I'm gonna need a right-hand man!"

Now that could be good. I need to remember that. I'm a pretty talented person. I bet I could get the job done.

"Incoming!"

Another shot from the cannons smashed through our defenses, bringing men down all around it. Screams and cries and smoke fill the air as the British deal the card of death out to our people.

Alexandra flits back and forth like a butterfly. She pauses beside Mulligan, rattling off orders to him as she wipes something that could be grease, mud, or something unidentifiable off her cheek. "They're battering down the battery, check the damages!"

He grunts in acknowledgement and moves to follow her instructions, stepping over bodies as he does so.

"We gotta stop 'em and rob 'em of their advantages!" She knows we're getting destroyed out there on the field, and she uses her brain to invent a strategy that can salvage what remains of our army.

Another grunt from Mulligan.

Her eyes light up as she finds a solution. "Let's take a stand with the stamina God has granted us. Hamilton won't abandon ship! Yo, let's steal their cannons!"

Shh-boom!

George is back on his horse, watching the damage play out, narrating it as he goes, the very definition of frustrated. I know he wants to join the fray, but it would accomplish precious little. One man, no matter how skilled, isn't going to hold out against the seemingly endless line of redcoats. "Goes the cannon, watch the blood and the shit spray and--"

Boom!

"Goes the cannon, we're abandonin' Kips Bay, and--"

Boom!

"There's another ship, and--"

Boom!

"We just lost the southern tip, and--"

Boom!

He's tearing out his hair, red in the face from the extent of his outrage. "We gotta run to Harlem quick, we can't afford another slip!"

"Guns and horses giddyup," he narrates as he directs us to a new location, trying his best to turn this situation to our favour. In a bold move, he splits the army. 

"I decide to divvy up my forces, they're skittish as the British cut the city up. This close to giving up, facing mad scrutiny. I scream in the face of this mass mutiny!" Poor man. He was called here to lead, but the people hear are too afraid to follow.

"Are these the men with which I am to defend America? We ride at midnight, Manhattan in the distance. I cannot be everywhere at once, people!" he complains, and something clicks in my head. I'm gonna need a right hand man, he said. "I'm in dire need of assistance!"

I approach him respectfully, pretending not to see the tired lines in his face and his exhausted eyes. "Your excellency, sir," I begin, lowering my eyes.

Wasting no time on small talk, he asks bluntly, "Who are you?"

"Aaron Burr, sir," I say, cutting the General some slack. There is a war going on, after all. "Permission to state my case?" I ask, saluting, stiff at attention.

"As you were." He eyes me warily, and I take that as a signal to start.

"Sir, I was a captain under General Montgomery until he caught a bullet in the neck in Quebec, and well, in summary, I think that I could be of some assistance. I admire how you keep firing on the British from a distance."

Washington seems perplexed, although I can't see why. It's a good plan. It keeps our casualties down. Anyone could see that. "Huh."

Disregarding his confusion, I forge on. "I have some questions, a couple of suggestions on how to fight instead of fleeing west."

"Yes?" he asks eagerly, leaning forward. The man's desperate for ideas, I can tell.

"Well--"

A certain someone interrupts. A certain someone who apparently doesn't know her manners. "Your excellency, you wanted to see me?" Alexandra asks, fiddling with her ponytail.

Washington gestures her into the room. "Hamilton, come in, have you met Burr?"

I glare at her, and she glares back. She wins. "Yes, sir," she says, and we say the nest part together, "We keep meeting."

Pulling myself back together, I turn away from the woman who is slowly but surely destroying my life, and address the General. "As I was saying, sir, I look forward to seeing your strategy play out--"

He doesn't wait for me to finish. "Burr?"

"Sir?" I question.

"Close the door on your way out."

I do so, hands clenched by my side, biting my tongue to keep from screaming. I fume silently, imaginary steam pouring out of my ears. I don't leave my spot beside the door, however, and I listen to the rest of the conversation in an anger that burns brighter than my future in this army.

Alexandra speaks first. Of course. "Have I done something wrong, sir?"

A little laugh comes from Washington as his voice flows smoothly through the wood. "On the contrary. I called you here because our odds are beyond scary. Your reputation precedes you, but I have to laugh."

"Sir?" Alexandra asks, bewildered. That could have been me, I think bitterly.

"Hamilton, how come no one can get you on their staff?"

"Sir!"

"Don't get me wrong, you're a young woman of great renown. I know you stole British cannons when we were still downtown. Nathaniel Green and Henry Knox wanted to hire you."

She scoffs, "To be their secretary? I don't think so." There's poison in her voice, and I'm suddenly glad I'm not Nathaniel Green or Henry Knox. She may as well have said, I'm not being their token pretty girl, and how dare you suggest I would even consider it?

Taking on a fatherly tone, Washington's voice is concerned and soft. "Why're you upset?" he asks, probably moving closer to her, because I hear shuffling noises coming from the room, and knowing Alexandra, she's crossed her arms and closed herself off, effectively making herself smaller.

"I'm not," she says, obviously upset.

A few calming words from Washington and the tension in the room diffuses. "It's alright, you want to fight, you've got a hunger. I was just like you when I was younger. Head full of fantasies of dyin' like a martyr?" he queries, and she admits to it, a bit sheepish.

"Yes."

"Dying is easy, young one, living is harder."

And just like that, I see it. Young Washington, heading off to fight, going to live wild and die young, a hero. Then getting to the battleground and realizing that nothing is like he thought. No one tells it how it is-- bloody, gory, traumatizing. Laughing with a man one night, then watching him as he is engulfed in a pillar of grey smoke, leaving behind a mangled, charred mess where a person used to be.

Alexandra voices the question I'm thinking, her voice shaking a bit. "Why are you telling me this?"

He responds simply, "I'm being honest. I'm working with a third of what our Congress has promised. We are a powder keg about to explode! I need someone like you to lighten the load." For a beat he pauses, letting her consider his offer. "So?"

In the dead silence I dare to hope. I know that this position isn't what Alexandra wants. She wants to lead. She wants a command. Maybe she'll pass up this opportunity.

Then I hear something, but as I look around, I realize that's it's a memory, a memory of that night in the bar, the night she declared what she was going to do in her life. She shouted it for the whole world to know.

I am not throwin' away my shot! I am not throwin' away my shot! Ayo, I'm just like my country, I'm young, scrappy and hungry... and...

"I am not throwing away my shot!" She finishes, and my dreams shatter. I bet she's shaking hands with the General even now, smug in her victory, safe in the knowledge that I've been sidelined by her... again.

"Sister, we are outgunned! Outmanned!" replies Washington, no doubt waiting for her to come up with some insane, genius plan.

"You need all the help you can get," she responds, then starts rattling off names. "I have some friends, Laurens, Mulligan, Marquis de Lafayette, okay, what else?"

Me. You can consider me a friend. I can help.

Washington reminds us of the gravity of the situation with an unnecessary, "Outnumbered, outplanned!"

Alexandra barely stops for breath, her mind whirring at a hundred miles a minute. "We'll need some spies on the inside, some King's men who might let some things slide!

"I'll write to Congress and tell 'em we need supplies. You rally the guys, master the element of surprise," she tells Washington. She's known this guy for what, five minutes, and she's already giving him orders? And he's a general?

"I'll rise above my station, organize your information, 'til we rise to the occasion of our new nation, sir!"

Some extra sense tells me that I have to move, fast. I tear across the yard, tripping over poles and strings and my own feet, but when the two emerge, I'm far away from the building. They don't know that I know, I realize, and I breathe easier. Except for the fact that, as long as Alexandra's in my way, I'm never going to get what I want.

The soldiers laying in the yard, bruised, bloody, and bandaged, see them and stand at attention. They yell, "Here comes the general!"

"Rise up!" Yells Alexandra, keeping the momentum going.

"Here comes the general!" They shout again.

All the women join her this time. "Rise up!"

The men: "Here comes the general!" 

And then the response from the women: "Rise up!"

Finally all of them together say, "Here comes the general!"

"And his right hand man!" Finishes Washington, and the crowd rumbles in agreement. The cannon shots in the distance seem to echo the sentiment, but I don't. 

Boom


	9. A Winter's Ball

Burr's POV

The news just came in, and it's not pretty. British Admiral Howe's got troops on the water. Thirty-two thousand troops in New York harbor. I know it won't take much for them to surround our troops, since there are so little of them . I shudder. When they surround our troops-- 

I'm in the camp, a part of the war effort, although right now I'm not really doing much. I'm waiting for an opportunity to show itself. They always do, if you're patient enough. Soldiers scurry about, and every so often I catch a glimpse of a familiar face.

Like now. Alexandra stands up and starts a speech. "As a kid in the Caribbean I wished for a war. I knew that I was poor. I knew it was the only way to--"

She gives a cue and the whole company comes in with the now familiar phrase, "Rise up!"

"If they tell my story," she barrels on, "I am either gonna die on the battlefield in glory or--"

"Rise up!" She smiles, hearing the amount of voices lifted in unity, with a single purpose.

"We will fight for this land, but there's only one man who can give us a command so we can?" She lets the end of her sentence trail off, leaving a question for the soldiers to answer.

And answer they do. "Rise up!"

Bringing it home, she shouts, "Understand? It's the only way to?"

"Rise up! Rise up!"

Now it's my turn. I see an important, if not larger-than-life, figure approach, and seize the moment. Alexandra yells out, "Here he comes!"

"Here comes the general!" Shout the soldiers, standing at attention.

I swoop in. "Ladies and gentlemen!" I bow to men and women alike, before continuing, the soldiers chanting when I pause.

"Here comes the general!"

"The moment you've been waiting for!" 

Here comes the general

Me again: "The pride of Mount Vernon!"

"Here comes the general!"

"George Washington!" Cheers and salutes greet me as the General steps up onto the platform where I had previously been standing. He looks tired, I notice.

"We are outgunned!" He shouts, wasting no time on pleasantries. Expecting a motivational, uplifting speech, the troops let out a few confused murmurs, before being cut off by the man as he continues.

"Outmanned! Outnumbered! Outplanned!

"We gotta make an all out stand! And I'm gonna need a right-hand man!"

Then he turns to me, and whispers into my ear, "Can I be real a second? For just a millisecond?Let down my guard and tell the people how I feel a second?"

Well, now what am I going to say to that? I can't seem to find words, so I nod dumbly, and General Washington returns to addressing the army as a whole. "Now I'm the model of a modern major general, the venerated Virginian veteran whose men are all lining up, to put me up on a pedestal. Writin' letters to relatives, embellishin' my elegance and eloquence. But the elephant is in the room. The truth is in ya face when ya hear the British cannons go--"

"Boom!"As he says it, something blasts a hole through our barricades, and Washington leads men to the battle. Others remain behind, lurking behind bushes and peeking out from behind fortifications.

The General can't fight the British himself, and he screams at them as they duck and run for cover.

"Any hope of success is fleeting. How can I keep leading when the people I'm leading keep retreating? We put a stop to the bleeding as the British take Brooklyn. Knight takes rook, but look!

"We are outgunned! Outmanned! Outnumbered! Outplanned!"

"We gotta make an all out stand!" He yells, but no one is paying him any attention. It's a bit hard to focus when you're getting absolutely pulverized. "I'm gonna need a right-hand man!"

Now that could be good. I need to remember that. I'm a pretty talented person. I bet I could get the job done.

"Incoming!"

Another shot from the cannons smashed through our defenses, bringing men down all around it. Screams and cries and smoke fill the air as the British deal the card of death out to our people.

Alexandra flits back and forth like a butterfly. She pauses beside Mulligan, rattling off orders to him as she wipes something that could be grease, mud, or something unidentifiable off her cheek. "They're battering down the battery, check the damages!"

He grunts in acknowledgement and moves to follow her instructions, stepping over bodies as he does so.

"We gotta stop 'em and rob 'em of their advantages!" She knows we're getting destroyed out there on the field, and she uses her brain to invent a strategy that can salvage what remains of our army.

Another grunt from Mulligan.

Her eyes light up as she finds a solution. "Let's take a stand with the stamina God has granted us. Hamilton won't abandon ship! Yo, let's steal their cannons!"

Shh-boom!

George is back on his horse, watching the damage play out, narrating it as he goes, the very definition of frustrated. I know he wants to join the fray, but it would accomplish precious little. One man, no matter how skilled, isn't going to hold out against the seemingly endless line of redcoats. "Goes the cannon, watch the blood and the shit spray and--"

Boom!

"Goes the cannon, we're abandonin' Kips Bay, and--"

Boom!

"There's another ship, and--"

Boom!

"We just lost the southern tip, and--"

Boom!

He's tearing out his hair, red in the face from the extent of his outrage. "We gotta run to Harlem quick, we can't afford another slip!"

"Guns and horses giddyup," he narrates as he directs us to a new location, trying his best to turn this situation to our favour. In a bold move, he splits the army. 

"I decide to divvy up my forces, they're skittish as the British cut the city up. This close to giving up, facing mad scrutiny. I scream in the face of this mass mutiny!" Poor man. He was called here to lead, but the people hear are too afraid to follow.

"Are these the men with which I am to defend America? We ride at midnight, Manhattan in the distance. I cannot be everywhere at once, people!" he complains, and something clicks in my head. I'm gonna need a right hand man, he said. "I'm in dire need of assistance!"

I approach him respectfully, pretending not to see the tired lines in his face and his exhausted eyes. "Your excellency, sir," I begin, lowering my eyes.

Wasting no time on small talk, he asks bluntly, "Who are you?"

"Aaron Burr, sir," I say, cutting the General some slack. There is a war going on, after all. "Permission to state my case?" I ask, saluting, stiff at attention.

"As you were." He eyes me warily, and I take that as a signal to start.

"Sir, I was a captain under General Montgomery until he caught a bullet in the neck in Quebec, and well, in summary, I think that I could be of some assistance. I admire how you keep firing on the British from a distance."

Washington seems perplexed, although I can't see why. It's a good plan. It keeps our casualties down. Anyone could see that. "Huh."

Disregarding his confusion, I forge on. "I have some questions, a couple of suggestions on how to fight instead of fleeing west."

"Yes?" he asks eagerly, leaning forward. The man's desperate for ideas, I can tell.

"Well--"

A certain someone interrupts. A certain someone who apparently doesn't know her manners. "Your excellency, you wanted to see me?" Alexandra asks, fiddling with her ponytail.

Washington gestures her into the room. "Hamilton, come in, have you met Burr?"

I glare at her, and she glares back. She wins. "Yes, sir," she says, and we say the nest part together, "We keep meeting."

Pulling myself back together, I turn away from the woman who is slowly but surely destroying my life, and address the General. "As I was saying, sir, I look forward to seeing your strategy play out--"

He doesn't wait for me to finish. "Burr?"

"Sir?" I question.

"Close the door on your way out."

I do so, hands clenched by my side, biting my tongue to keep from screaming. I fume silently, imaginary steam pouring out of my ears. I don't leave my spot beside the door, however, and I listen to the rest of the conversation in an anger that burns brighter than my future in this army.

Alexandra speaks first. Of course. "Have I done something wrong, sir?"

A little laugh comes from Washington as his voice flows smoothly through the wood. "On the contrary. I called you here because our odds are beyond scary. Your reputation precedes you, but I have to laugh."

"Sir?" Alexandra asks, bewildered. That could have been me, I think bitterly.

"Hamilton, how come no one can get you on their staff?"

"Sir!"

"Don't get me wrong, you're a young woman of great renown. I know you stole British cannons when we were still downtown. Nathaniel Green and Henry Knox wanted to hire you."

She scoffs, "To be their secretary? I don't think so." There's poison in her voice, and I'm suddenly glad I'm not Nathaniel Green or Henry Knox. She may as well have said, I'm not being their token pretty girl, and how dare you suggest I would even consider it?

Taking on a fatherly tone, Washington's voice is concerned and soft. "Why're you upset?" he asks, probably moving closer to her, because I hear shuffling noises coming from the room, and knowing Alexandra, she's crossed her arms and closed herself off, effectively making herself smaller.

"I'm not," she says, obviously upset.

A few calming words from Washington and the tension in the room diffuses. "It's alright, you want to fight, you've got a hunger. I was just like you when I was younger. Head full of fantasies of dyin' like a martyr?" he queries, and she admits to it, a bit sheepish.

"Yes."

"Dying is easy, young one, living is harder."

And just like that, I see it. Young Washington, heading off to fight, going to live wild and die young, a hero. Then getting to the battleground and realizing that nothing is like he thought. No one tells it how it is-- bloody, gory, traumatizing. Laughing with a man one night, then watching him as he is engulfed in a pillar of grey smoke, leaving behind a mangled, charred mess where a person used to be.

Alexandra voices the question I'm thinking, her voice shaking a bit. "Why are you telling me this?"

He responds simply, "I'm being honest. I'm working with a third of what our Congress has promised. We are a powder keg about to explode! I need someone like you to lighten the load." For a beat he pauses, letting her consider his offer. "So?"

In the dead silence I dare to hope. I know that this position isn't what Alexandra wants. She wants to lead. She wants a command. Maybe she'll pass up this opportunity.

Then I hear something, but as I look around, I realize that's it's a memory, a memory of that night in the bar, the night she declared what she was going to do in her life. She shouted it for the whole world to know.

I am not throwin' away my shot! I am not throwin' away my shot! Ayo, I'm just like my country, I'm young, scrappy and hungry... and...

"I am not throwing away my shot!" She finishes, and my dreams shatter. I bet she's shaking hands with the General even now, smug in her victory, safe in the knowledge that I've been sidelined by her... again.

"Sister, we are outgunned! Outmanned!" replies Washington, no doubt waiting for her to come up with some insane, genius plan.

"You need all the help you can get," she responds, then starts rattling off names. "I have some friends, Laurens, Mulligan, Marquis de Lafayette, okay, what else?"

Me. You can consider me a friend. I can help.

Washington reminds us of the gravity of the situation with an unnecessary, "Outnumbered, outplanned!"

Alexandra barely stops for breath, her mind whirring at a hundred miles a minute. "We'll need some spies on the inside, some King's men who might let some things slide!

"I'll write to Congress and tell 'em we need supplies. You rally the guys, master the element of surprise," she tells Washington. She's known this guy for what, five minutes, and she's already giving him orders? And he's a general?

"I'll rise above my station, organize your information, 'til we rise to the occasion of our new nation, sir!"

Some extra sense tells me that I have to move, fast. I tear across the yard, tripping over poles and strings and my own feet, but when the two emerge, I'm far away from the building. They don't know that I know, I realize, and I breathe easier. Except for the fact that, as long as Alexandra's in my way, I'm never going to get what I want.

The soldiers laying in the yard, bruised, bloody, and bandaged, see them and stand at attention. They yell, "Here comes the general!"

"Rise up!" Yells Alexandra, keeping the momentum going.

"Here comes the general!" They shout again.

All the women join her this time. "Rise up!"

The men: "Here comes the general!" 

And then the response from the women: "Rise up!"

Finally all of them together say, "Here comes the general!"

"And his right hand man!" Finishes Washington, and the crowd rumbles in agreement. The cannon shots in the distance seem to echo the sentiment, but I don't. 

Boom


	10. Helpless

Elijah's POV

I've never been so utterly happy, as I am now. "I do I do I do I do! Girl, you got me helpless! Look into your eyes, and the sky's the limit! I'm helpless! Down for the count, and I'm drownin' in 'em!"

I have never been the type to try and grab the spotlight. This seems to surprise people, but I'm not sure why. Just because my last name's Schuyler doesn't mean I'm outgoing or flashy. We were at a revel with some rebels on a hot night. Laughin' at my sister as she's dazzling the room, then you walked in and my heart went "Boom!" That's an understatement. Tryin' to catch your eye from the side of the ballroom. Everybody's dancin' and the band's top volume. We grind to the rhythm as we wine and dine.

I'm swept off my feet and grab my sister, and whisper, "This one's mine." My sister made her way across the room to you, and I got nervous, thinking "What's she gonna do?" She grabbed you by the arm, I'm thinkin' "I'm through". Then you look back at me and suddenly I'm helpless! 

Helpless!

Oh, look at those eyes! They're intelligent and deep, and I'm afraid if I look at them for too long, I'll fall right in, and never be able to escape. But I'm not really scared, because I trust that their owner will be brave enough to fish me out.

When I look into your eyes, it's like the sky's the limit, and I'm helpless! Helpless, I know! Down for the count and I'm drownin' in 'em! I'm helpless!

I'm so into you! Look into your eyes! They tell the story of who you are, and what you've seen, and all that you will accomplish. I am so into you, and the sky's the limit! I'm helpless! I know I'm down for the count! Down for the count and I'm drownin' in 'em. And I'm drownin' in 'em!

I watch from across the room as my sister Angelica talks to you. She takes your arm, and my breath hitches in my throat as she all but drags you over to where I stand, a nervous wreck. 

You laugh, and it's a beautiful sound, clear and true. "Where are you taking me?" you ask her, and she smiles back at you mischievously.

"I'm about to change your life," she promises you, and you just laugh and shake your head.

"Then by all means," you say, curtsying in mock deference, "lead the way."

Somehow I'm able to keep myself composed enough to introduce myself. "Elijah Schuyler. It's a pleasure to meet you," I say, my voice smooth, barely higher than normal. You frown a little, and turn to Angelica, a question in your eyes.

"Schuyler?"

"My brother," She says, a satisfied little smile on her face. I know I have a stupid wide grin on my face, but you don't seem to mind. If anything, you encourage it.

Blushing, I try for a compliment. "Thank you for all your service." I've heard of your involvement in the war, I know that you're General Washington's go-to.

"If it takes fighting a war for us to meet, it will have been worth it," you say, smooth as silk, causing my flush to spread and darken. You smirk, and I feel the ground falling out from beneath me as I slowly lose all control.

Say what you will about my sister, but she knows when to take a hint. "I'll leave you to it," she says, smiling at me while wiggling her eyebrows. I mutter darkly under my breath, and she twirls away, straight into the arms of a startled but not unhappy Lafayette.

One week later

I'm writin' a letter nightly. Now my life gets better, every letter that you write me. Laughin' at my sister, cuz she's jealous of my luck.

She huffs, and makes an effort to explain herself. "I'm just sayin', it's about time you had a fu--"

"Ha!" I stick my tongue out at her and she sulks in the corner. Peter scoffs into his own work, engrossed in some sort of book, possibly poetry?

Two weeks later 

In the living room stressin'. Although that's putting it mildly. I'm practically hyperventilating, terrified of what could go wrong. My father's stone-faced while you're asking for his blessin'. You're so calm. How can you be so calm? I'm dying inside, as you wine and dine, and I'm tryin' not to cry, because there's nothing that your mind can't do.

My father makes his way across the room to you. I panic for a second, thinking, "We're through." But then he shakes your hand and says,"Be true." And you turn back to me, smiling, and I'm helpless! Helpless! I look into your eyes, and the sky's the limit I'm helpless! Helpless! Down for the count and I'm drownin' in 'em! I'm helpless!

"That girl is mine! That girl is mine!" I call, absolutely ecstatic. It feels like today is the first day of the rest of my life, probably because it is.

"I look into your eyes, and there is no limit! I'm helpless! Down for the count, and I'm drownin' in 'em!"

You turn to me, and I see sincerity in your face. When you speak, it's with total honesty. "Elijah, I don't have a dollar to my name, an acre of land, a troop to command, a dollop of fame. All I have's my honor, a tolerance for pain, a couple of college credits and my top-notch brain.

"Insane," you continue, gesturing with your hands, a grin breaking out over your beautiful face, "your family brings out a different side of me! Peter confides in me, Angelica... also confides in me," you trail off, and I frown, wondering what you were going to say. Angelica what? But you keep going, and I decide it's not important. "No stress, my love for you is never in doubt. We'll get a little place in Harlem and we'll figure it out. 

"I've been livin' without a family since I was a child. My father left, my mother died, I grew up buckwild. But I'll never forget my mother's face, that was real. And long as I'm alive, Elijah, swear to God you'll never feel so..."

"Helpless!" we say together, and you smile at me, and I melt inside.

Then you say something precious. "My life is going to be fine because Elijah's in it!'

"I look into your eyes, and the sky's the limit! I'm helpless! Down for the count, and I'm drownin' in 'em!

A few days later

Everything's in order. It's the big night, and I think I'm going to be sick. Is this how it's supposed to be? Boiling in your stomach and a pounding headache? That's no fun!

I'm fidgeting at the altar. The room's too hot, my clothes are too scratchy. I'm collapsing under the pressure. 

Then you glide down the aisle, and the world rights itself. My definition of beauty changes to you, in this very instant, about to be mine. Your hair gleams, your eyes are bright, and your smile is dazzling. I don't know what I've done to get such a beautiful wife.

"In New York, you can be a new man...In New York, you can be a new man...In New York, you can be a new man..."

I'm helpless, I think, right before the priest finishes, and your sweet lips are against mine, and you are finally mine.


	11. Satisfied

Angelica's POV

We're all standing around, laughing, drinking wine and talking, when John Laurens, the best man, stands up. He's about to announce my speech. My stomach churns, but I smile all the same, stifling any sour expression.

"Alright, alright!" he calls, his voice almost too carefree. "That's what I'm talking about! Now everyone give it up for the maid of honour, Angelica Schuyler!" He steps back, and I see the forced smile on his face. Poor John. I can relate.

I start simple. "A toast to the groom!" I say clearly, raising my glass high, and giving my brother a nod. Everyone copies, and repeats my words back.

"To the bride!" I say, turning to Alexandra, making eye contact for longer than normal. Again the people in the room echo me, and I press forward in my speech.

"From your sister," I say, tears threatening to break from my eyes, "who is always by your side!"

"To your union!"

The echo changes this time, with all the soldiers present by Alexandra's invitation shout, "To the Union! To the Revolution!"

My voice doesn't betray me as I continue. "And the hope that you provide! May you always," I say, looking Alexandra dead in the eye, "be satisfied!"

Rewind... Rewind...  
Helpless... Sky's... Sky's...  
Drownin' in 'em...  
Drownin' in 'em...

I remember that night, I just might (rewind)  
I remember that night, I just might (rewind)  
I remember that night, I remember that--

I remember that night, I just might regret that night for the rest of my days. I remember those soldier boys tripping over themselves to win our praise. I remember that dreamlike candlelight like a dream you can't quite place, but Alexandra, I'll never forget the first time I saw your face.

I have never been the same. Intelligent eyes in a hunger-pang frame. I remember how worried I was about you, if the war was too hard on you. And when you said, "Hi," I forgot my dang name, set my heart aflame, every part aflame, this is not a game!

You came up to me on the edge of the dance floor, started up a conversation with me. You leaned in and looked at me with those soulful eyes and said, "You strike me as a woman who has never been satisfied."

Now, I didn't know what to say to that. I was dumbfounded, but also impressed. I gathered my composure and shot back an icy, "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, you forget yourself."

And then you gave a look that said, You know exactly what I mean, you're just running from the truth. "You're like me," you said, matter-of-factly. "I'm never satisfied."

"Is that right?" raising my eyebrows, I asked. It seemed like a stretch for someone like her, with such big goals and high expectations, to feel like she hadn't done enough.

"I have never been satisfied," you tell me, and I was struck by your honesty. I'd never met someone so willing to admit that much about themselves with someone they don't know all that well. It was refreshing.

Finally coming to my senses, I said to you, "My name is Angelica Schuyler."

"Alexandra Hamilton."

Next step, the small talk. "Where's your family from?" I ask, starting to grill her for information.

Deflecting the question like a pro, she waves a hand. "Unimportant, there's a million things I haven't done, but just you wait. Just you wait."

So this is what it's like to match wits with someone at your level... finally! What the hell is the catch? It's the feeling of freedom, of seeing the light! It's Ben Franklin with a key and a kite! You see it, right?

Our meeting was so electric! The conversation lasted two minutes, maybe three minutes, everything we said in total agreement! I told her about Common Sense, by Thomas Paine, and she responded in a kind. It's a dream and it's a bit of a dance, it's a bit of a posture, it's a bit of a stance. She's a bit of a flirt (don't tell anyone), but I'ma give it a chance.

My train of thought changes course. I asked about her family, did you see her answer? Her hands started fidgeting, she looked askance. She's penniless, she's flying by the seat of her pants.

But she's beautiful, and does she know it! She's got a young face, but she'll grow out of it. I want to take her far away from this place, but then I turn and see my brother's face and he is...

"Helpless..."

And I know he is

"Helpless..."

Because I'm helpless too. It seems no one is immune to her charms or beauty. And Elijah's eyes are just

"Helpless..."

Then my heart drops, and I realize three fundamental truths at the exact same time.

I grab Alexandra's arm and practically drag her across the room. She laughs, clear and true, and it doesn't make things any easier. "Where are you taking me?" she ask me, and I smiles back mischievously, hiding my true emotions perfectly.

"I'm about to change your life," I promises her, and she just laughs and shakes her head.

"Then by all means," she says, curtsying in mock deference, "lead the way."

Number one!

I'm a girl in world in which my only job is to marry rich. My father has two sons, but still I'm the one who has to social climb for one. So I'm the oldest and the wittiest and the gossip in New York City is insidious. And Alexandra's a woman. Ha! That doesn't mean I want her any less.

We walk up to my brother, who's trying to keep it together. "Elijah Schuyler. It's a pleasure to meet you," He introduces himself smoothly and professionally. Alexandra frowns a little, and turns to me, a question in her eyes.

"Schuyler?" she asks.

"My brother," I say, a fake little smile on my face. Elijah's grinning so wide it looks like his face might crack, but she seems to find it cute, or endearing.

Number two!

She's friends with me because I'm the Schuyler sister, that elevates her status. I'd have to be naive to set that aside. Maybe that is why I introduce her to Elijah, now she's his bride. Nice going, Angelica, she was right. You will never be satisfied.

Elijah knows about Alexandra's involvement in the war, and that she's General Washington's go-to, so he compliments her on that. "Thank you for all of your service."

"If it takes fighting a war for us to meet, it will have been worth it," she says, smooth as silk, causing his blush to spread and deepen, and my heart to crack, bit by bit and my face slowly turn to stone. She smirks, and I feel the ground falling out from beneath me as I descend into the pit of absolute despair.

"I'll leave you to it," I say, smiling a smile I don't feel at Elijah while wiggling my eyebrows. He mutters something darkly under his breath, and I twirls away, straight into the arms of a startled but not unhappy Lafayette.

He doesn't question the tears that come rolling down my face, but instead discreetly leads me outside, staying with me until I am decent enough to return to the festivities. He offers me his handkerchief and his shoulder to cry on, and I use them. There are some people who I wouldn't feel comfortable with, but not Lafayette. He knows the term respect.

Number three!

I know my brother like I know my own mind! You will never find anyone as trusting or as kind! If I told him that I loved her, he'd be silently resigned, she'd be mine! He'd say, "I'm fine."

But he'd be lying. So I don't say anything. I watch and watch, and everyday a little part of me dies, but it never shows. I can never let it show. 

Despite this, when I fantasize at night, it's Alexandra's eyes, as I romanticize what might have been if I hadn't sized her up so quickly. 

At least my Alexandra is his wife. At least I keep her eyes in my life.

\---

"To the groom!" I say again, this time letting my tears flow. Let them mistake my pain for joy. 

"To the bride!"

"From your sister who is always by your side!" I see Elijah wipe away a solitary tear, and I smile through the hurt. This is the best day of his life.

"To your union!" The soldiers chime in again, their voices strong when mine can't be.

"To the Union! To the Revolution!"

It's back to me again. "And the hope that you provide! May you always," I say, my voice cracking and splitting and finally failing me, "be satisfied."

I finish in a whisper, and everyone loves it. I turn and see Elijah kiss Alexandra, their love passionate and forever. I know he'll be happy with his bride. And I know she'll never be satisfied.

I'll never be satisfied.


	12. The Story of Tonight (Reprise)

Angelica's POV

We're all standing around, laughing, drinking wine and talking, when John Laurens, the best man, stands up. He's about to announce my speech. My stomach churns, but I smile all the same, stifling any sour expression.

"Alright, alright!" he calls, his voice almost too carefree. "That's what I'm talking about! Now everyone give it up for the maid of honour, Angelica Schuyler!" He steps back, and I see the forced smile on his face. Poor John. I can relate.

I start simple. "A toast to the groom!" I say clearly, raising my glass high, and giving my brother a nod. Everyone copies, and repeats my words back.

"To the bride!" I say, turning to Alexandra, making eye contact for longer than normal. Again the people in the room echo me, and I press forward in my speech.

"From your sister," I say, tears threatening to break from my eyes, "who is always by your side!"

"To your union!"

The echo changes this time, with all the soldiers present by Alexandra's invitation shout, "To the Union! To the Revolution!"

My voice doesn't betray me as I continue. "And the hope that you provide! May you always," I say, looking Alexandra dead in the eye, "be satisfied!"

Rewind... Rewind...  
Helpless... Sky's... Sky's...  
Drownin' in 'em...  
Drownin' in 'em...

I remember that night, I just might (rewind)  
I remember that night, I just might (rewind)  
I remember that night, I remember that--

I remember that night, I just might regret that night for the rest of my days. I remember those soldier boys tripping over themselves to win our praise. I remember that dreamlike candlelight like a dream you can't quite place, but Alexandra, I'll never forget the first time I saw your face.

I have never been the same. Intelligent eyes in a hunger-pang frame. I remember how worried I was about you, if the war was too hard on you. And when you said, "Hi," I forgot my dang name, set my heart aflame, every part aflame, this is not a game!

You came up to me on the edge of the dance floor, started up a conversation with me. You leaned in and looked at me with those soulful eyes and said, "You strike me as a woman who has never been satisfied."

Now, I didn't know what to say to that. I was dumbfounded, but also impressed. I gathered my composure and shot back an icy, "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, you forget yourself."

And then you gave a look that said, You know exactly what I mean, you're just running from the truth. "You're like me," you said, matter-of-factly. "I'm never satisfied."

"Is that right?" raising my eyebrows, I asked. It seemed like a stretch for someone like her, with such big goals and high expectations, to feel like she hadn't done enough.

"I have never been satisfied," you tell me, and I was struck by your honesty. I'd never met someone so willing to admit that much about themselves with someone they don't know all that well. It was refreshing.

Finally coming to my senses, I said to you, "My name is Angelica Schuyler."

"Alexandra Hamilton."

Next step, the small talk. "Where's your family from?" I ask, starting to grill her for information.

Deflecting the question like a pro, she waves a hand. "Unimportant, there's a million things I haven't done, but just you wait. Just you wait."

So this is what it's like to match wits with someone at your level... finally! What the hell is the catch? It's the feeling of freedom, of seeing the light! It's Ben Franklin with a key and a kite! You see it, right?

Our meeting was so electric! The conversation lasted two minutes, maybe three minutes, everything we said in total agreement! I told her about Common Sense, by Thomas Paine, and she responded in a kind. It's a dream and it's a bit of a dance, it's a bit of a posture, it's a bit of a stance. She's a bit of a flirt (don't tell anyone), but I'ma give it a chance.

My train of thought changes course. I asked about her family, did you see her answer? Her hands started fidgeting, she looked askance. She's penniless, she's flying by the seat of her pants.

But she's beautiful, and does she know it! She's got a young face, but she'll grow out of it. I want to take her far away from this place, but then I turn and see my brother's face and he is...

"Helpless..."

And I know he is

"Helpless..."

Because I'm helpless too. It seems no one is immune to her charms or beauty. And Elijah's eyes are just

"Helpless..."

Then my heart drops, and I realize three fundamental truths at the exact same time.

I grab Alexandra's arm and practically drag her across the room. She laughs, clear and true, and it doesn't make things any easier. "Where are you taking me?" she ask me, and I smiles back mischievously, hiding my true emotions perfectly.

"I'm about to change your life," I promises her, and she just laughs and shakes her head.

"Then by all means," she says, curtsying in mock deference, "lead the way."

Number one!

I'm a girl in world in which my only job is to marry rich. My father has two sons, but still I'm the one who has to social climb for one. So I'm the oldest and the wittiest and the gossip in New York City is insidious. And Alexandra's a woman. Ha! That doesn't mean I want her any less.

We walk up to my brother, who's trying to keep it together. "Elijah Schuyler. It's a pleasure to meet you," He introduces himself smoothly and professionally. Alexandra frowns a little, and turns to me, a question in her eyes.

"Schuyler?" she asks.

"My brother," I say, a fake little smile on my face. Elijah's grinning so wide it looks like his face might crack, but she seems to find it cute, or endearing.

Number two!

She's friends with me because I'm the Schuyler sister, that elevates her status. I'd have to be naive to set that aside. Maybe that is why I introduce her to Elijah, now she's his bride. Nice going, Angelica, she was right. You will never be satisfied.

Elijah knows about Alexandra's involvement in the war, and that she's General Washington's go-to, so he compliments her on that. "Thank you for all of your service."

"If it takes fighting a war for us to meet, it will have been worth it," she says, smooth as silk, causing his blush to spread and deepen, and my heart to crack, bit by bit and my face slowly turn to stone. She smirks, and I feel the ground falling out from beneath me as I descend into the pit of absolute despair.

"I'll leave you to it," I say, smiling a smile I don't feel at Elijah while wiggling my eyebrows. He mutters something darkly under his breath, and I twirls away, straight into the arms of a startled but not unhappy Lafayette.

He doesn't question the tears that come rolling down my face, but instead discreetly leads me outside, staying with me until I am decent enough to return to the festivities. He offers me his handkerchief and his shoulder to cry on, and I use them. There are some people who I wouldn't feel comfortable with, but not Lafayette. He knows the term respect.

Number three!

I know my brother like I know my own mind! You will never find anyone as trusting or as kind! If I told him that I loved her, he'd be silently resigned, she'd be mine! He'd say, "I'm fine."

But he'd be lying. So I don't say anything. I watch and watch, and everyday a little part of me dies, but it never shows. I can never let it show. 

Despite this, when I fantasize at night, it's Alexandra's eyes, as I romanticize what might have been if I hadn't sized her up so quickly. 

At least my Alexandra is his wife. At least I keep her eyes in my life.

\---

"To the groom!" I say again, this time letting my tears flow. Let them mistake my pain for joy. 

"To the bride!"

"From your sister who is always by your side!" I see Elijah wipe away a solitary tear, and I smile through the hurt. This is the best day of his life.

"To your union!" The soldiers chime in again, their voices strong when mine can't be.

"To the Union! To the Revolution!"

It's back to me again. "And the hope that you provide! May you always," I say, my voice cracking and splitting and finally failing me, "be satisfied."

I finish in a whisper, and everyone loves it. I turn and see Elijah kiss Alexandra, their love passionate and forever. I know he'll be happy with his bride. And I know she'll never be satisfied.

I'll never be satisfied.


	13. Wait For It

Burr's POV

As I walk through the night air, it calms my frayed nerves. I think back on my conversation with Alexandra, and settle on my "special someone", as Laurens put it. 

Theodosia writes me a letter every day. I'm keeping her bed warm while her husband is away. He's on the British side in Georgia, he's trying to keep the colonies in line. But he can keep all of Georgia, because Theodosia, she's mine.

There are those who would condemn me for what I've done, but they don't realize that love doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints. It takes and it takes and it takes and we keep loving anyway, despite what it does to us. And we laugh and we cry and we break and make our mistakes.

But if there's a reason I'm by her side when so many have tried, I'm willing to wait for it.

I think back on the people in my life. My grandfather was a fire and brimstone preacher, but there are things that the homilies and hymns don't teach you. He thought every problem could be solved easily, if one had divine help, but I see now that it's not that simple.

My mother was a genius, my father commanded respect. Unlike me, I think bitterly. I can't even get Laurens to listen to me. When they died, they left no instructions, just a legacy to protect. This why I can't just "go get her," like Alexandra said. I could lose it all, and then how would I keep their memory alive? How would I honour them then?

Death doesn't discriminate between the sinners or the saints either, I realize. It takes and it takes and it takes and we keep living anyway. We rise and we fall and we break and make our mistakes. And if there's a reason I'm still alive when everyone who loves me has died, then I'm willing to wait for it.

I'm willing to wait for it.

If there's anything I've learned, it is that I am the one thing in life I can control! I an inimitable, I am an original! I'm not falling behind or running late! I'm not standing still, I'm lying in wait, and someday, when I've risen above them all, they'll see that.

Hamilton is facing and endless uphill climb. She has something to prove, she has nothing to lose. That's why she can do what she wants, chase her dreams, her hopes, her aspirations, while I watch from the wings. Hamilton's pace is relentless, she wastes no time!

What is it like in her shoes?

Hamilton doesn't hesitate. She exhibits no restraint. She takes and she takes and she keeps winning anyway. Changes the game and raises the stakes! And if there's a reason she seems to thrive when so few survive, then goddamn it, I'm willing to wait for it!

Life doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints. It takes and it takes and it takes. We rise and we fall! And if there's a reason I'm still alive when so many have died, then I'm willing to wait for it!

Wait for it...


	14. Stay Alive

Hamilton's POV

I have never seen the General so despondent. I have taken up writing all his correspondence. Congress writes, "George, attack the British forces," like we're not already doing the best we can. I shoot back, "We have resorted to eating our horses! Local merchants deny us equipment, assistance. They only take British money, so sing a song of sixpence!"

Washington stumbles into the room grimy and covered in mud, and for a moment, I fear he's been shot. As I rush forward to offer assistance, I realize that he's simply suffering from exhaustion.

Wiping sludge off his face, he tells me, "The cavalry's not coming."

I start. "But sir--" 

He cuts me off, still breathing heavily as he looks me right in the eyes, begging me to pay attention. "Alex, listen. There's only one way for us to win this. Provoke outrage, outright."

"That's right," I nod, seeing his reasoning behind the order.

"Don't engage, strike by night. Remain relentless until their troops take flight."

I finish his line of thought, cheering up considerably. This is the General I know! "Make it impossible to justify the cost of the fight!"

"Outrun!" He says again, and I echo him.

"Outrun!"

"Outlast!"

"Outlast!"

Washington emphasizes the most important instruction. "Hit 'em quick, get out fast!"

"Chick-a-plao!"

"Stay alive until this horror show is past," he says, looking at me with tired eyes. "We're going to fly a lot of flags half-mast."

Laurens, Lafayette and I repeat our catchphrase in a monotone, in respect to the fallen soldiers, and the ones who haven't yet. "Raise a glass."

Hercules has gone to back to New York and his apprenticeship, which is a huge relief to me. I don't know what I would do if we lost him. He's no soldier, and the best place for him is in his shop.

Lafayette's asked for French aid, but we have no way of knowing if France has sent a ship. All we can do know is pray for the best.

Laurens stays at work with me, writing essays against slavery, and every day is a test of our camaraderie and bravery. And my commitment to Elijah. The traitorous thought snakes into my head, and I shrug it off, focusing back on the war.

We cut supply lines, we steal contraband. We pick and choose our battles and places to take a stand. And every day, I say, "Sir, entrust me with command." And every day...

"No." he dismisses me out of hand.

Instead of me, he promotes Charles Lee. Makes him second in command.

When Lee gets promoted, he runs through the camp, yelling, "I'm a General! Whee!" It's insulting. He's not the choice I would have gone with. He shits the bed at the Battle of Monmouth!

Washington leads the assault. "Everyone attack!" he yells, and our men surge forward, united as one.

Until Lee, the coward that he is, shouts, "Retreat!" and our troops wheel, leaving them vulnerable to the British.

Washington yells again, this time louder, "Attack!"

"Retreat!" orders Lee, sending our small army into a state of confusion, milling around aimlessly as the British shoot men down left and right, howling in pain.

Red in the face, Washington figures out the cause of the chaos, and screams at the general, "What are you doing, Lee, get back on your feet!"

The response comes, and it's absolutely the wrong one. "But there's so many of them!" he whines.

"Oh, I'm sorry, is this not your speed?" Washington screams, then turns to me. "Hamilton!"

"Ready, sir!" I call out, saluting. This is it.

Apparently not. "Have Lafayette take the lead!"

It's fine. Lafayette's great at military strategy. He's the logical choice, I think, but it stings nonetheless.

A hundred soldiers die in a hundred degree heat as we snatch a stalemate from the jaws of defeat. Charles Lee was left behind without a pot to piss in, which is more generous than he deserved. Then he started saying this to anybody who would listen.

"Washington cannot be left alone to his devices! Indecisive from crisis to crisis!" I'm pretty sure that was you, Lee. "The best thing he can do for the Revolution is turn and go back to planting tobacco in Mount Vernon!"

I launch myself at Lee, but General Washington holds me back. "Don't do a thing. History will prove him wrong," he says. I know history will, but it won't punch him in the face. I want to reserve that honour for me. 

"But sir!" I protest. Surely he can see that this insubordination will spread through the troops if it's not obliterated immediately.

He looks at me with steely eyes, and says, "We have a war to fight. Let's move along," and I know the discussion's over, but it doesn't stop me from smoldering. 

John walks up to me, and I read anger in every line in his body. "Strong words from Lee, someone ought to hold him to 'em," he spits out, gesturing rudely to Lee's retreating form.

I sigh. "I can't disobey direct orders," I explain.

"Then I'll do it," John says, grabbing my hand. My breath hitches in my throat as he continues, putting his other hand behind my neck. "Alexandra, you're the closest friend I've got."

When he moves, I finally allow myself to breathe normally. Clearing my voice, I say, very professionally, "Laurens, do not throw away your shot."

John nods and walks away, and I wonder what I have done with my life.


	15. Ten Duel Commandments

Burr's POV

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine!

"It's the Ten Duel Commandments," say Laurens, Lee, Alexandra and me. It's imperative that the Commandments be recited before every duel. Someone somewhere decreed it so that everyone knows exactly what's happening.

The soldiers around us number them off. "Number one!" they shout.

"The challenge: demand satisfaction. If they apologize, no need for further action," says Laurens, the challenger. Of course he shows no fear, dancing around and laughing with Alexandra like he does this on weekends.

"Number two!"

Laurens keeps the narrative rolling. "If they don't, grab a friend, that's your second."

"Your lieutenant when there's reckoning to be reckoned!" Finishes Alexandra, who is Laurens' second. If anything happens to her because of this, Laurens is going to get hit.

"Number three!"

Lee takes his turn. "Have your seconds meet face to face!" 

Alexandra and I meet in the middle of the field. "Negotiate a peace," I say when we are close enough, holding my hand out to her. Hopefully we can end this matter here and now.

"Or negotiate a time and place," she responds, declining the handshake. That's just typical. She still thinks she has something to prove.

"This is commonplace, especially between recruits," I say. The troops behind he join in for the next line. "Most disputes die and no one shoots!"

"Number four!"

Laurens says, "If they don't reach a peace, that's alright. Time to get some pistols and a doctor on site." 

"You pay her in advance, you treat her with civility," says Alexandra, while bringing forward one of the female soldiers, a medic, to stand on the sidelines.

Taking the woman by the shoulders, I gently spin her around so she's facing the other way. "You have her turn around so she can have deniability."

"Five!"

"Duel before the sun is in the sky!" Lee says this, and I dwell on the reason for it. So the participants can have a chance to think things through over the night, which we already have, and so that the battlefield can be as even as possible.

"Pick a place to die where it's high and dry! Number six!"

Alexandra has a faraway look in her eyes as she says the next part, almost as if she's thinking about her family at home. "Leave a note for your next of kin. Tell them where you've been. Pray that hell or heaven lets you in."

"Seven!"

"Confess your sins, ready for the moment of adrenaline when you finally face your opponent!" says Lee, and I see how nervous he actually is. I don't blame him. If I were facing Laurens I'd be terrified too.

"Number eight!"

All of us together: "Your last chance to negotiate. Send in your seconds, see if they can set the record straight!"

We meet again in the field, and I see from the look on her face that this meeting is nothing more that a formality. Her hair is pulled back, her eyes are set, and there's an expression of ease on her features.

"Alexandra," I try to appeal to our friendship, hoping that might save us from this whole ordeal.

No such luck. "Aaron Burr, sir!"

That's how she's going to play this? Fine. But that doesn't mean that I won't be respectful. I can be the better man. "Can we agree that duels are dumb and immature?"

"Sure," she shrugs, the ease obvious in the fluidity of the movement. "But your man has to answer for his words, Burr."

I scoff. "With his life? We both know that's absurd!"

Immediately, her face clouds over, and all civility is gone. "Hang on," she shouts, "how many men died because Lee was inexperienced and ruinous?"

Sighing, I resign myself to the situation. "Okay, so we're doing this."

"Number nine!"

We walk off in opposite directions, and Alexandra yells the next line in an attempt to bolster everyone's bravery. "Look 'em in the eye, aim no higher! Summon all the courage you require, then count!"

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine!"

"Number!" Alexandra and I shout the line together, and the company answers us, deafeningly loud.

"Ten paces!"

Then we both yell, "Fire!"

And there's a gunshot. Only one.


	16. Meet Me Inside

Washington's POV

I hear the echo of a gunshot, and anger flares in me. What part of my order did Hamilton not understand? I stand in preparation to go and yell at some idiots.

"Lee, do you yield!" I hear her call from outside, and then a furious reply from Burr.

"You shot him in the side! Yes, he yields!"

Laurens' voice chimes in. "I'm satisfied!" So that's who did it. You'd think someone clever enough to break the rules would be wise enough to understand why they are there in the first place.

"Yo, we gotta clear the field!" I hear Burr yell, and I start to think maybe I made a mistake choosing Hamilton instead of him. At least he doesn't disobey direct orders!

Hamilton, ecstatic, shouts, "Go! We won!"

As I stride out of the building I hear gasps and people say, "Here comes the General!"

Burr sighs. "This should be fun."

As I reach the sight, I see Burr supporting a semi-conscious General Lee, who is bleeding profusely from a wound in his abdomen. "Mr. Burr, get a medic for the General!" I order, and to my relief he complies. Somebody around here listens to their superiors, at least. 

"Yes, sir!" he says quickly, then focuses on grabbing the woman Alexandra had selected before the duel commenced.

I turn and address the wounded man laying beneath me. "Lee, you will never agree with me, but believe me, these young people don't speak for me! Thank you for your service," I say, bowing my head to me.

His eyes slip closed, and Burr lifts Lee into his arms, carrying him to the medic's tent, with the doctor floating at his elbow. It's a miracle he didn't slip on the slick blood coating the ground. "Let's ride!"

"Hamilton!" I yell, my face red and my hands shaking with anger.

She looks up at me, defiant. "Sir!"

Then I lower my voice to a quiet, dangerous tone. "Meet me inside."

I hear the soldiers as they gossip and chant my words mockingly at Alexandra as she follows me into my office, but I make no move to stop them. Alexandra earned her insults.

I sit down at my desk, suddenly tired. I rub my hand across my forehead and eyes, before starting, gently, "Sister--"

"Don't call me sister," she snarls, and I relent.

I try a more intellectual approach instead of an emotional one. "This war is hard enough without infighting--"

She talks over me, forgetting in her anger my position in relation to hers. "Lee called you out. We called his bluff!"

"You solve nothing!" I yell, frustrated. "You aggravate our allies to the south!"

"You're absolutely right," Alexandra agrees, and it throws me off. But then she goes on, and my temper flares right up again. "John should've shot him in the mouth, that would've shut him up."

I give up. "Sister--"

"I'm not your sister!" 

Reminding her of who she's talking to, I warn, "Watch your tone. I am not a maiden in need of defending, I am grown!"

Bad choice of words. She absolutely explodes. "Charles Lee, Thomas Conway, these men take your name and they rake it through the mud!"

"My name's been through a lot, I can take it!" I shoot back, standing up.

"Well, I don't have your name! I don't have your titles, I don't have your land! But, if you--" she starts, but I cut her off.

That can't happen. I have a letter on my desk that means it can't, and I made a promise that it won't. "No!"

"If you gave me command of a battalion, I could rise above my station after the war!" So that's all she cares about? Money and standing? She married a Schuyler! What more does she need! If it wasn't for her pride, she could have everything she wants.

"Or you could die, and I need you alive!"

Alexandra looks at me, like Really? That's the best you've got? "I am more than willing to die--"

Now it's my turn to explode. "Your husband needs you alive! Sister, I need you alive--"

"CALL ME SISTER ONE MORE TIME!"

I look at her as she stands in front of my desk, chest heaving, breath coming uneven. She looks terrible. Suddenly all my anger dissipates, and I am left feeling drained. "Go home, Alexandra. That's an order from your commander."

Her voice is small. "Sir--"

"Go home."

She turns and walks out, looking all the world like a little lost kitten. I know she's the best second in command I could hope for, but I don't call her back. I made a promise, and I'm not breaking it.

Not even if if means we lose the war.


	17. That Would Be Enough

Elijah's POV

I see Alexandra enter the room, and I feel the warm relief course through me, even though she brings a dark cloud in with her, and her boots leave mud tracks across the floors. Rushing to her, I pull her close to my chest, ignoring the prickling at the back of my throat and my eyes as they blink rapidly.

She simply stands there limply, not embracing me back. Sighing, she leans her head against my torso, just letting it hang there. I can feel her shaking as she finally breaks, silent tears running. Finally she clutches me back, and can sense the desperation in every fibre of her being.

"Look around," I sing quietly, rocking her gently as I recall that bright afternoon in the city, Angelica teasing Aaron, my hopes shining more brilliantly with every worker I encountered. "Look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now. Look around, look around..."

As I trail off, I cup her dusty chin with my hand, before glancing down at her stomach, where I know my child is sleeping. Alexandra looks back up at me, terror flashing in her eyes for a moment as she pulls away, clasping her arms around her sides.

"How long have you known?" She asks, but her voice has no edge to it. Just resignation.

A soft smile breaks my face, but my eyes are filled with concern, as I answer vaguely, "A month or so."

This approach doesn't calm her down though. She's nearly in hysterics, partly because of hormones, mostly from exhaustion. "But, Elijah, I didn't tell you," she protests, and I hear the paranoia, the feeling of Dear-God-who-else-knows-how-do-I-keep-them-from-knowing. It tears me apart, to see her wonderful mind so afflicted.

"I wrote to the General a month ago."

"No," Alexandra gasps, as she sinks slowly onto the chair, no longer scared or upset, just full-out mad. Furious. Betrayed. Wounded.

But I don't ask her forgiveness. I don't beg, or rationalize. Instead I say, "I'm not sorry," which doesn't seem to be the kindest or most conventional way of dealing with this particular situation, but I know it's the quickest way to make her understand. She lowers her head into her hands, willing herself not to cry.

"I knew you'd fight until the war was won," I offer as an explanation, keeping my tone gentle and my hand resting comfortingly on her shoulder. For a moment, there is silence, then a muffled, weak retort:

"The war's not done."

This isn't quite as easy as I expected.

Oh, who am I kidding, it's not quite as easy as I hoped. It's exactly what I expected. The woman's pregnant and overworked, pretty much dead on her feet, and still she refuses to take a break. It's insane. 

"But we deserve a chance to meet our son." No response from my wife, just a heavy sigh that catches in her throat halfway through, and I start rubbing calming circles into her back, which is heaving with every breath she takes.

I sing the familiar line again, "Look around, look around, at how lucky we are to be alive right now..."

It's not working. Turning back towards me, Alexandra stares me right in the eye, doing nothing to hide the tracks her tears have scored through the layers of grime, baked on from hours in the sun. Her brown eyes seem to pierce me, no longer gifting me wings upon which to soar to new heights, but are designed specially to shoot me down.

"I will not relish being a poor man's wife," she says, the rage seeping into the air around us, souring the room around us. "Unable to provide for our life."

Do you? her eyes seem to accuse. Do you want this? Do you want to subject our child, my son, to this? I have seen poverty. I have seen suffering, barely escaped it. And yet here you are, pleading with me to throw it all away.

Quenching any doubts that crawl to the surface of my mind, I say quietly, "I relish you as my wife." Silence. I take her hand. "Look around, look around.

"Look at where you are. Look at where you started. The fact that you're alive is a miracle. Just stay alive," I plead, and she turns her head, from shame or something more, I can't tell. "That would be enough."

"And if this child," Alexandra looks back at me, and I see she's crying shamelessly, holding nothing back, and I struggle to keep my composure, "shares a fraction of your smile, or a fragment of your mind, that would be enough."

Finally I crack, and hot tears spill down my face. Stained hands reach up to wipe them away, smearing dirt over my cheeks, and I let out a little choked laugh. Even though I'm overcome with all sorts of emotions, I keep going, saying, "I don't pretend to know the challenges you're facing, the worlds you keep erasing and creating in your mind.

"But I'm not afraid," I assure her, and Alexandra smiles, but her tears don't stop. "I know who I married. So as long as you come home at the end of the day, that would be enough.

This part is possibly the most important. I need to make sure she understands that we don't need anything but each other, before she gets it into her head that she has to do something reckless. "We don't need a legacy. We don't need a legacy. If I could grant you peace of mind. If you could let me inside of your heart..."

"Oh, let me be a part of the narrative of the story they will write someday," I beg her, because they will tell her story. She will change the world. Her name will never be forgotten, and I want to stand next to her throughout all of time.

"Let this moment be the first chapter, where you decide to stay.

"And I could be enough." 

My voice cracks.

"And we could be enough." 

Alexandra lays her head on my shoulder, sighing with contentment. I hold her close, and I cry again, soft drops slipping out of my eyes and sliding down my cheeks.

"And that would be enough."


	18. Guns and Ships

Burr's POV

I'm standing on a mound of dirt in a field of dirt, shouting to a group of dirty soldiers, trying to ignore the dirt smeared on my face. I've been appointed the unofficial morale officer, and I'm actually doing my job, unlike some slackers up in this carnage.

"How does a ragtag volunteer army in need of a shower," I yell, and there are hoots and cheers coming from the men, "somehow defeat a global superpower? How do we emerge victorious from the quagmire, leave the battlefield waving Betsy Ross's flag higher?

"Yo! Turns out we have a secret weapon!" More cheers, and a few insults thrown around jokingly. "An immigrant you know and love who's not afraid to step in! He's constantly confusing, confounding the British henchmen!" And me, with a really long, complicated introduction. "Everybody give it up for America's favourite fighting Frenchman!"

The whole group joins in, knowing exactly who I'm referring to. "LAFAYETTE!"

Said Frenchman finally makes his entrance, leaping around like a frog, making the company of tired, sweaty soldiers holler and laugh at his crazy antics. "I'm taking this horse by the reigns, making these Redcoats redder with bloodstains!"

"LAFAYETTE!" roar the men.

"And I'm never gonna stop until I make 'em drop and burn 'em up and scatter the remains! I'm--" He doesn't stop for breath, just keeps spouting out the words, getting faster and faster with every phrase.

From somewhere in the crowd, a single voice is heard, faintly calling, "You go, Laffy!" and is accompanied with catcalls, whistles, and jostles.

"LAFAYETTE!"

He jumps onto the mound, and I get out of the general vicinity as quickly as possible. "Watch me engaging 'em! Escaping 'em! Enraging 'em! I'M--" he trails off, and the mob eagerly completes the sentence for him.

"LAFAYETTE!"

A marvelous smile spreads across his face. Truly the man is a gift from heaven. He's a one-man battering ram, down-to-earth, and a great drinking partner. He shouts, "I go to France for more funds!"

"LAFAYETTE!"

"I come back with more guns," he thrusts his firearm into the sky, and the entire group, myself included, follow his lead, "and ships! And so the balance shifts!"

Whoops and deafening noise erupts, but the mood of the scene shifts when the General appears, but instead of breaking up the mob, he contributes a line of his own, prompting his own echo of assent. "We rendezvous with Rochambeau, consolidate their gifts!"

Lafayette approaches the General, and, speaking in his normal voice, informs him, "We can end this war at Yorktown, cut them off at sea, but," he stops for a moment, ceasing his wild gestures in a moment of respect, "for this to succeed, there is someone else we need:"

Resignedly, Washington says, "I know."

The soldiers, who were pretending not to listen to the conversation but totally were anyways, turn and shout the next part with the General, almost knocking the man off his feet. "HAMILTON!"

French accent growing ever thicker with every passing word, Lafayette explains himself. "Sir, she knows what to do in a trench! Ingenuitive and fluent in French, I mean--" 

"HAMILTON!"

"Sir, you're gonna have to use her eventually," he says, and everyone there knows it, even though it pains some of us to admit it. "What's she gonna do on the bench," I don't know, maybe not die? I know it's necessary, but still! It's dangerous! "I mean--"

"HAMILTON!"

"No one else has more resilience or matches my practical, tactical brilliance!" Well, that's true. 

"HAMILTON!"

Lafayette addresses the army. "You want to fight for your land back?" he shouts, question hanging in the air, to be answered by a wave of sound, indecipherable. I decide to take it as an affirmative.

"I need my right hand back!" says Washington, not giving in to the chaos around him.

And as the crowd chants Alexandra Hamilton's name, Lafayette continues to advise the General, speaking faster than I could have thought possible. "Get your right-hand man back! You know you gotta get your right-hand man back! I mean, you've got to put some thought into the letter, but the sooner the better to get your right-hand man back!"

I watch through the window as Washington composes his letter to Alexandra. I know it doesn't matter how her words it, she'll come anyways, and I have no doubt in my mind that he knows it too. Still, he takes the time to write out a full request, one that I only catch glimpses of through the panes.

Alexandra Hamilton, the letter reads, Troops are waiting in the world for you. If you join us right now, together we can turn the tide! 

Alexandra Hamilton, I have soldiers that will yield for you, it says. If we manage to get this right, they'll surrender by early light.

The world will never be the same, Alexandra... 

Isn't that the truth.


	19. History Has Its Eyes On You

Washington's POV

Alexandra stands in front of my desk, at perfect attention despite the baby bump, and I curse myself silently. I'm sending a pregnant woman into battle. Hell has a special place for me.

"I was younger that you are now," I say to her, offering her the best advice I have, "when I was given my first command. I led my men straight into a massacre," she lets out an involuntary gasp, and I lower my head. "I witnessed their deaths firsthand."

It's imperative she understands this about war, about me. If she's to lead, there are harsh truths she needs to learn. I lower my gaze, and continue, "I made every mistake, and felt the shame rise in me, and even now I lie awake, knowing history has its eyes on me."

When I look up, I see her straighten, and repeat my words back to me. "History has its eyes on me," she whispers. I nod, seeing the message has sunk in. 

"Let me tell you what I wish I'd known, when I was young and dreamed of glory." I rise from my seat, and take the sword that was resting on my desk. Resting it in the palms of my hands, I hold it out towards Alexandra. She reaches a hand out to grasp it, and I snatch it away. "You have no control: who lives, who dies, who tells your story."

I know about what Alexandra, John, Hercules and Lafayette have been saying, their bluster and boasts about the heroes they'll be, the tales that will be told about them, painting them in the role of saviours and champions. How wrong they are, thinking they can shape the world around them to suit their fantasies.

Her hand falls to her side, and I look her dead in the eye, holding the stare until I see understanding in her eyes, and Alexandra drops her head.

"I know that we can win. I know that greatness lies in you," I say, smiling a little as her head snaps up in surprise, not expecting the praise I'm giving her. "But remember from here on in, history has its eyes on you."

Now, finally, I give her the sword, and she sheaths it, smiling back at me. It never ceases to amaze me; even in the face of such a bleak future, people like Alexandra can find it within themselves to smile. Grasping her hand, I make eye contact with her, and an unspoken message passes between us. She stands a little taller as she salutes. 

Impulsively, I salute her back, and I see the shock on her face before she turns and exits the building. In the peace that fills the quiet, empty room, I amend my previous statement.

History has its eyes on us.


	20. Yorktown

The battle of Yorktown. 1781.

Alexandra's POV

I'm finally here, on the battlefield, doing what I was meant to do, what I dreamt of doing. Fighting for freedom, constructing my legacy bit by bit. Breathing in the crisp fall air, I decide this is the day when my life truly begins.

"Madame Hamilton!" I hear from behind me, and I turn to see a certain Frenchman coming my way, the widest smile threatening to break his face in two.

I mirror his expression, embracing him when he finally reaches me. "Monsieur Lafayette!" I ignore the fact that he is more careful around me than usual, and is very cautious when he hugs me. I'm about to tell him off for it when he lets go, tell him that I'm not delicate, and he's not going to break me in half, but he keeps talking to me.

"In command where you belong!"

I decide to let it go, and poke a little fun at him instead, "How you say, no sweat," mimicking his accent perfectly. I push him playfully in the arm to show I mean no disrespect. "We're finally on the field, we've had quite a run," I say, just like we practiced, and his eyes light up.

Lafayette starts it off. "Immigrants:"

"We get the job done!" high-fiving, we say the last part together. Lafayette came up with it just before the Laurens-Lee duel, when Washington sent me home, and he's been waiting for a chance to use it ever since.

Quickly I change the subject, before he can launch into another of his creations. "What happens if we win?" I ask, but the "if" is more of a "when" in my mind. Alexandra Hamilton doesn't lose.

"I go back to France," Lafayette says, like it should be obvious. It is, but I'm not about to tell him that. "I give freedom to my people if I'm given the chance."

Nodding in agreement, I assure him, "We'll be with you when you do."

I see his eyes glisten for a moment, but then he pushes me away. "Go, lead your men," but he's not angry. Instead he's amused, and a bit overwhelmed with the promise of support I've just given him.

"I'll see you on the other side," I start, but he waves the farewells away with a scoff.

He says simply, "'Til we meet again!" Then he turns to his group of men, and leads them away, roaring, "Let's go!"

After he's out of my sight, I reflect back on that night in the bar again, with my friends, particularly the part I said. I am not throwing away my shot! I am not throwing away my shot! I'm just like my country, I'm young, scrappy and hungry, and I'm not throwing away my shot! I am not throwing away my shot!

"'Til the world turns upside down!" I shout to my soldiers. The British will not control us forever. Yes, some of us won't make it, but our country will be a better place for the ones that do. They pick up on this, and shout back, "'Til the world turns upside down!"

I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory. This is where it gets me: on my feet, the enemy ahead of me? If this is the end of me, at least I have a friend with me, a weapon in my hand and my men with me.

Then I remember my Elijah's expecting me. Not only that, my Elijah's expecting us! Looking down at my stomach, I can't pretend that this child isn't important. I can't pretend I'm eager to die a martyr. I can't pretend that the loss of either of us would tear my husband apart, nevermind the loss of us both.

Turning to my men, I make the conscious decision that I want more that a legacy, I want a life, with my family. I want us to be happy, to be safe. "We gotta go, gotta get the job done! Gotta start a new nation, gotta meet my son!

"Take the bullets out your gun!" I yell, and the soldiers stare at me in confusion.

"What?" they ask.

I elaborate, "The bullets out your gun!"

Still they yell, "What?" They heard me the first time, they just didn't understand, and didn't trust me enough to blindly obey.

"We move under cover and we move as one through the night! We have one shot to live another day! We cannot let a stray gunshot give us away!" I see recognition and understanding dawn on the faces of my men, and they hurry to comply with my orders. "We will fight up close, seize the moment and stay in it! It's either that or meet the business end of a bayonet! The code word is 'Rochambeau', dig me?"

An echoing cry of, "Rochambeau!" nearly blows out my eardrums. Perfect.

"You have your orders, now go, man, go!" I yell, and they surge into the fray, falling British soldiers left and right, some of them going down with screams, others falling with hardly a sound. It's gruesome and it's bloody, but I didn't expect anything less. After all, it is war.

And so the American experiment begins, with my friends all scattered to the winds. Laurens is in South Carolina, redefining bravery. He was always so dedicated, so committed to his cause. I remember what he said to me before he left. "We'll never be free until we end slavery!"

When we finally draw the British away, Lafayette is there waiting in Chesapeake Bay, to cut them off at sea, just like he promised the General. But how did we know this plan would work? We had a spy on the inside...

"Hercules Mulligan!"

My friend bursts from the ranks of the British, spreading more and more confusion with every word he hollers. This whole reveal isn't necessary, at all, but my friends seem to have a flair for the dramatic. (See Lafayette.)

He yells the next part while jumping around and dancing. "A tailor spying on the British government! I take their measurements, information, and then I smuggle it! Up to my brother's revolutionary covenant. I'm running with the Sons of Liberty and I am loving it!"

The speech he's making is raising everybody's spirits, getting cheers and hoots and filthy comments left and right, and it's right up Hercules' alley. "See, that's what happens when you go up against the ruffians! We in the shit now, somebody's gotta shovel it!

"Hercules Mulligan, I need no introduction! You knock me down, I get the fuck back up again!"

When he finishes, I find myself screaming with the rest of the mob, stomping my feet and clapping my hands. Suddenly dodging bullets doesn't seem so bad. It's another way to infuriate the Redcoats, and that's something I love to do.

The siege is in full swing, cannon shots echoing, gunpowder smoking, and commanders yelling orders all around me. I keep it together, directing my men as best I can, determined to win this.

After a week of fighting, a young man in a red coat stands on a parapet. We lower our guns as he frantically waves a white handkerchief. And just like that, it's over. We tend to our wounded, we count our dead. Black and white soldiers wonder alike if this really means freedom.

Not yet.

We negotiate the terms of surrender. I see George Washington smile. We escort their men out of Yorktown. They stagger home single file. Tens of thousands of people flood the streets. There are screams and church bells ringing. And as our fallen foes retreat, I hear the drinking song they're singing.

"The world turned upside down..."

"The world turned upside down... the world turned upside down... the world turned upside down... down, down, down!"

The peace that has settled over the soldiers despite the chaos around us shatters. Lafayette rushes toward me, shouting, "Freedom for America, freedom for France!" When he envelops me in a bone-crushing hug, I feel him shaking. I can tell that he's crying on my shoulder, overcome with the realization that his people could be free.

When he finally releases me to go attack Hercules, I feel my own tears drip down my face as I come to a realization of my own. "Gotta start a new nation," I yell, my voice cracking, "gotta meet my son!"

"We won!" roars Hercules from where he and Lafayette are standing, Lafayette still quite teary-eyed.

Wiping his eyes, the Frenchman laughs, and then says in disbelief, "We won!"

Then Lafayette launches himself at Hercules, and the two of them break down again, yelling, "We won!" and sobbing into each other.

All of the soldiers, Washington and myself included, join them, shouting, "We won!" loud enough for the defeated British to hear as they trudge away. "The world turned upside down!"

Watching all this, it strikes me that war, while it is bloody and traumatic and horrific, is the bringer of laughter and joy, and the feeling in the pit of your stomach that makes you feel lighter than air. It brings the tears of full-grown men with very masculine beards, and the smiles of men whose jobs are to hide their feelings and project fake ones. Most importantly to me, it brings the promise of safety and peace for little children, who will never have to feel the oppression of a cruel or unwanted government.

I can't describe that day in all the glory and emotion it deserves. I can only say that it turned the world upside down.


	21. What Comes Next?

King George III's POV

Pacing across my throne room, there's no sense of calm, no peace. How could my colonies do this to me? I did everything right! They had me! What more could they want?

They say, I write, thinking about how my people won't let me get the Colonies back, the price of my war's not a price that they're willing to pay.

Insane! You cheat with the French, that one hurt, now I'm fighting with France and with Spain. Both of them. At the same time. Because of the Colonies. 

I'm so blue! I thought that we'd made and arrangement when you went away. You were mine to subdue! Well, even despite our estrangement, I've got a small query for you:

Ha. It's adorable, all those little people thinking they can survive without me.

What comes next? You've been freed. Do you know how hard it is to lead? You're on your own. Awesome, wow! I'm so happy for you! Not. Do you have a clue what happens now? No. No you do not. Because you're just like little children, dressing up in Daddy's clothes and pretending to take charge of the household. It won't last long. Soon he'll come home, and playtime'll be over.

Oceans rise, empires fall! It's much harder when it's all your call. I know I make it look easy, but trust me, it's not. There are taxes to collect, military expeditions to fund, colonies to deal with-- it's exhausting!

All alone, across the sea. When your people say they hate you, and they will, no doubt about it, don't come crawling back to me! I've had enough, and I refuse to clean up your messes.

You're on your own...

I wipe a single tear from the corner of my eye. I know it's for the best, but still. I guess you never know what you have until it's gone.


	22. Dear Theodosia

Burr's POV

Cradling my baby girl in my arms, I smile. She's so little, so innocent in comparison to me and all my experience. If she ever has to go through the horrors I have, I will have failed. So I make her a promise as I gently rock her back and forth while quietly singing.

"Dear Theodosia, what to say to you. You have my eyes, you have your mother's name." My thoughts wander to my beautiful wife. Finally able to call her mine is still somewhat of a shock, pleasant, but surprising nonetheless. "When you came into the world, you cried and it broke my heart."

Feeling the prickle of hot tears, I blink my eyes rapidly to dispel them. "I'm dedicating every day to you. Domestic life was never quite my style." A quiet laugh escapes my lips, and my daughter responds with a gurgle. "When you smile, you knock me out, I fall apart," I sing softly, finally feeling the wetness sliding down my cheekbones. I chuckle at myself through the tears, "And I thought I was so smart."

"You'll come of age with our young nation. We'll bleed and fight for you, we'll make it right for you." And she'll be safe from war and oppression. I swear on my life, she'll be safe. "If we build a strong enough foundation, we'll pass it on to you. We'll give the world to you, and you'll blow us all away."

Watching Theodosia Jr. gurgle and coo melts my heart. "Someday. someday. Yeah, you'll blow us all away. Someday, someday..."

Though I want this moment to last forever, it doesn't. Alexandra casually leans up against the wall, smiling a charming smile at me. Seeing her instantly darkens my mood. "Go away," I tell her, and she makes a face before melting back out of the room. I shake my head to clear it. I can never get her off my mind.

"Oh, Philip, when you smile I am undone, my son." And she's back again. I want to scream at her, but she's holding her child, too, and is singing to him, much like I sang to Theodosia. Seemingly unaware of me, her clear soprano fills the room, or my head, as she sings. "Look at my son! Pride is not the word I'm looking for. There is so much more inside me now."

Mesmerized, I watch her, amazed at how different this woman is from the Alexandra I know. She's kinder, gentler, less reckless. I asses her without realizing that the same could be said about me. 

"Oh, Philip, you outshine the morning sun, my son. When you smile, I fall apart, and I thought I was so smart," she admits, and when she finally looks up at me, I see her cheeks are shimmering with tears too. "My father wasn't around."

I echo her, slipping into a harmony. I had conveniently forgotten how similar the two of us are. "My father wasn't around."

"I swear that--" she starts, and I join her, "I'll be around for you..."

"I'll do whatever it takes."

"I'll make a million mistakes."

Both of us sing the next part to our children in unison. The only thing we can agree on is our love for them. "I'll make the world safe and sound for you. You'll come of age with our young nation. We'll bleed and fight for you. We'll make it right for you. If we lay a strong enough foundation, we'll pass it on to you, we'll give the world to you, and you'll blow us all away.

"Someday, someday. Yeah, you'll blow us all away. 

"Someday, someday."

I make eye contact with Alexandra for a full minute, neither of us moving. Then, slowly, I hold out my daughter to her. She leaned over, and touched Theodosia's nose gently with her forefinger. Smiling, she tilts Philip over to me, and I see the calm expression on his sleeping face. I go to say something to Alexandra, but she just dissolves in front of my eyes, taking her son, leaving no trace of her ever being in Theodosia's nursery.


	23. Lauren's Interlude (Tomorrow There'll Be More of Us)

Laurens' POV

The smoke in my eyes blinded me. The chaos of the battlefield deafened me. I didn't see the soldier. I didn't see the shot. I didn't hear the warning.

But I felt the bullet.

It struck me somewhere in my abdomen.

All around me, my men are falling, the enemy is falling. Carnage is everywhere, and it hits me that I have become part of it, another corpse, cold but not yet lifeless. 

Coming to my mind is every happy memory, few from my childhood. I see my dear friends, Hercules and Lafayette, and I see Aaron Burr, who, while not a friend, is friendly enough. Then I remember Alexandra. My Alexandra. And I sing, remembering a drunken night millions of years ago, though only blood froths from my mouth instead of words.

I may not live to see our glory...

"Alexandra?" I hear Elijah approach her writing desk. I spent hours at that desk with her. "There's a letter for you from South Carolina."

But I will gladly join the fight...

She doesn't even turn her head, instead keeps scribbling away with her quill, dismissing her husband with an offhand remark and a wave of her hand. "It's from John Laurens, I'll read it later." Of course she'd say that. She wouldn't want to read my letter in front of him. That would just be wrong.

But Elijah's not going anywhere. "No, it's not." Now Alexandra turns, worry clouding her ink-smudged face.

And when our children tell our story...

"Will you read it?" she asks, and I want to scream.

They'll tell the story of... tonight...

An oblivious Elijah reads aloud, "On Tuesday the 27th, Lieutenant John Laurens was killed in a gunfight against British troops in South Carolina." It's as if I feel the bullet pierce my body all over again, as I see Alexandra's broken expression. "These troops had not yet received word from Yorktown that the war was over. He's buried here until his family can send for his remains."

"As you may know," Elijah's still reading. Why is he still reading? "Lieutenant Colonel Laurens was engaged in recruiting 3000 men for the first all-black military regiment. The surviving members of this regiment have been returned to their masters."

Wait, what? I fought for those men! I died for my men! They deserve freedom!

Then I see how shattered she is. My Alexandra, afraid of nothing, is looking like the ground underneath her has fallen out from under her, like her very world just imploded. I can't stand to see her like this.

Reaching out, I cup her chin with my hand, before pulling her into a loving hug, feeling tears slide down my cheek and into her hair. "Tomorrow there'll be more of us," I whisper in her ear, my voice only breaking slightly.

She stiffens, and then pushes me away, looking me directly in the eyes, hers still glistening.

Elijah interrupts, his own voice betraying how he feels about this news. It wouldn't hurt him to be a little more torn up about my death. "Alexandra, are you alright?"

She stands up, pushing back her chair with a determination I've never before seen. "I have so much work to do," she says, hurriedly wiping her eyes, then tearing out of her office like she's just spotted Burr. 

The two of us stand in silence, a bit baffled. Then I glare over at Elijah and say, with a bitterness I really do feel, "She was mine first."

I swear he flinched.


	24. Non-Stop

Burr's POV

After the war, I went back to New York. Unfortunately, so did Alexandra.

The Alexandra in my head yells, "After the war, I went back to New York!"

I roll my eyes. I finished up my studies and I practiced law, I think, focusing my thoughts to shut her out. Sadly, it doesn't work.

"I practiced law. Burr worked next door," she teases, and I contemplate smashing my head against a rock repeatedly.

Even though we started at the very same time, Alexandra Hamilton began to climb. How to account for her rise to the top? Man, the ma'am is non-stop!

Flash forward

We're at our first trial, and Alexandra won't shut up. What else is new? I mean, all her points are valid, but they're not all necessary. 

"Gentlemen of the jury, I'm curious." she says, pacing back and forth in front of the stands. "Are you aware we're making history? This is the first murder trial of our brand-new nation. The liberty behind deliberation."

There are nods of assent, and I sigh in relief. "I intend to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt, with my assistant counsel--"

I cut in, jumping to my feet. This I won't tolerate. "CO-counsel! Hamilton, sit down. Our client Levi Weeks is innocent, call your first witness." I address the jury, then turn to her, exasperated. "That's all you had to say."

She looks at me a moment, then, "Okay." She adopts a tone one would use with a small child. Grinding my teeth, I watch as she leaps up once more. "One more thing..."

Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? The more times I think it, the angrier I get, so, naturally, I keep repeating it. Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room. Soon that attitude may be your doom.

Watching her dance around the room with fervent hand gestures only feeds my rage, and I continue my tirade. Why do you write like you're running out of time? Write day and night like you're running out of time? Everyday you fight like you're running out of time. Keep on fighting. In the meantime...

I snap out of it in time to hear Alexandra bashing people, as per usual. "Corruption's such an old song that we can sing along in harmony, and nowhere is it stronger than in Albany." Pointing an accusatory finger, she forges on. "This colony's economy is increasingly stalling, and honestly, that's why public service seems to be calling me!"

She's just non-stop. Regular people would take a break to get a drink of water or something, but nope!

"I practiced the law, I practically perfected it." I roll my eyes. Arrogant, self-centered, too smart for her own good... "I've seen injustice in the world, and I've corrected it. Now for a strong central democracy, if not then I'll be Socrates, throwing verbal rocks at these mediocrities!"

Hamilton at the Constitutional Convention

I remember she came to me first. I was the first one to see the glow in her eyes and the breathless excitement in her voice when she said, "I was chosen for the Constitutional Convention!"

She's there as a New York junior delegate.

I get nightmares about what happened next.

"Now what I'm gonna say may sound indelicate," she warned them, but she only said that so she could talk smack about everyone and no one could stop her. Then she goes and proposes a new form of government! Her own plan for a new form of government, which isn't actually that bad, but don't worry. It gets worse.

She talks for six hours! The Convention is listless!

I imagine a kindly man, rubbing his temples and saying, "Bright young lass--" only to be cut off by someone with a more abrupt way of telling Alexandra exactly what he thinks of her. "Who the f--- is this?"

Alexandra, why do you always say what you mean? Why do you always say what you mean? Every proclamation guarantees free ammunition for you enemies. Your many, many enemies. Why do you write like it's going out of style? Write day and night like it's going out of style? Every day you fight like it's going out of style. Trust me, it's not. But, hey! Do what you do. 

Flash forward

It's finally dark, and I'm exhausted. I think, that if I could get grey hairs, Alexandra would be the cause of all of them. After I put my daughter to bed, I begin to get ready to retire myself, when a knock sounds on the door.

Groaning, I heave myself to the door, looking worse than a dead man. Opening it, who do I see? Alexandra freaking Hamilton. It takes all my self-control not to slam the door in her face.

"Alexandra," I say, my tone extremely level.

She smiles at me. "Aaron Burr, sir."

I'm not amused. "Why, it's the middle of the night."

Her bright eyes dull slightly. Slightly subdues, she asks, "Can we confer, sir?"

"Is this a legal matter?"

"Yes," she says, and I curse. Of course. "and it's important to me."

"What do you need?" I cave. I usually do, especially when it's her.

I am in no way prepared for what she says next. The Alexandra I know would rather watch me burn than admit what she says next. "Burr, you're a better lawyer than me."

Stunned, I say, "Okay."

Alexandra says, "I know I talk too much, I'm abrasive. You're incredible in court! You're succinct, persuasive. My client needs a strong defense, you're the solution." There's a hopeful look on her face, and I'm immediately suspicious. 

"Who's your client?"

"The new US Constitution?" Ah, there it is. The catch. 

I avoid looking into her eyes. "No."

"Hear me out!" she pleads, but I'm not going to give in this time.

"No way!"

She's absolutely on fire, her cheeks flaming red. "A series of essays, anonymously published, defending the document to the public!"

Scoffing, I say, "No one will read it."

"I disagree." Of course she does. That's all she ever does. Never a compromise, never a negotiation. Always her way.

"And if I fails?" I ask, the when implied.

She throws her hands in the air, somehow managing to mess up her hair at the same time. "Burr, that's why we need it!"

That's another thing. What's with the 'Aaron Burr, sir,' thing anyway? I've always considered her a friend, a very tiring, excitable friend who talks all the time. "The Constitution's a mess!" I protest, getting more and more animated the longer this conversation continues.

"So it needs amendments!" I scoff at her. Alexandra refuses to back down, though, and I have to fight to get a word in. 

"It's full of contractions!"

She shoots back, "So is independence! We have to start somewhere!"

I ignore her pleads, ignore the fact that for once it's her begging me. "No. No way!"

"You're making a mistake!" she warns, but I don't care.

I go to slam the door, done with this conversation. "Goodnight!"

Then she sticks her foot in the door. SHE STICKS HER FOOT IN THE DOOR TO PREVENT IT FROM CLOSING! What is it with this woman? No means no means no!

"Hey! What are you waiting for? What do you stall for?" She yells in my face, forcing the door open all the way, letting the cold night air leech into my skin. 

Shivering, I squint at her, not seeing her point. "What?"

"We won the war, what was it all for?" 

I don't like the accusatory tone she's taken, jabbing her finger at my chest as she screams at me, "Do you support this constitution!"

What are you playing at, Alexandra? "Of course."

She spits out, "Then defend it!"

"And," I say, calmly, patiently, summoning all my energy, "what if you're backing the wrong horse?"

And that's the exact moment I regretted my entire existence.

Her fists clench by her sides. Her face slowly turns purple, as she leans in, dangerously close. When she speaks, her voice is low and surprisingly calm. "Burr, we studied, and we fought, and we killed for the notion of a nation we now get to build! For once in your life, take a stand with pride! I don't understand how you stand to the side!"

Anger boils in my stomach. She thinks she knows so much, about life, about politics, about me. I step towards her, and the sold is no longer in the air, it's in me as I yell back into her face, "I'll keep all my plans close to my chest! I'll stay here and see which way the wind will blow! I'm taking my time watching the afterbirth of a nation, watching the tension grow!"

Then I slam the door in her face.

Flash forward

Standing outside on the street, I'm listening in on all of Alexandra's conversations. If she seems a little paranoid, it's because of me. I can't believe it! She just keeps winning, and winning, and winning, and I'm left with nothing.

Wait! I hear Angelica's voice. What's she doing here? 

"I am sailing off to London, I am accompanied by someone who always pays. I have found a wealthy husband who will keep me in comfort for all my days." Good for her. Now, I won't pretend I'm not a little disappointed, but still. "He is not a lot of fun," Bummer. "but there is no one who can match you for turn of phrase."

"My Alexandra," Wait, what? "Don't forget to write!"

Then I have to dive into the bushes to avoid being seen as she leaves his office, meeting up with a man I don't recognize. They leave arm in arm, but I see she's not at ease, unsatisfied with him. 

"Look at where you are," Elijah's voice says, and I feel bad for the poor man. All he wants is his wife to acknowledge him, to love him, and instead he gets shoved aside to make room for her political pursuits.

"Look at where you started. The fact that you're alive is a miracle. Just stay alive, that would be enough. And if your man could share a fraction of your time, if I could grant you peace of mind, would that be enough?"

Flash forward

Alexandra joins forces with James Madison and John Jay to write a series of essays entitled, 'The Federalist Papers.' The plan was to write a total of twenty-five essays, the work divided evenly among the tree of them. In the end, they wrote eighty-five essays in the span of six months. John Jay got sick after writing five. James Madison wrote twenty-nine. Hamilton wrote the other fifty-one!

I'm amazed, and I'm left wondering, How do you write like you're running out of time? Write day and night like you're running out of time? Every day you fight like you're running out of time, like you're running out of time. Are you running out of time?

How do you write like tomorrow won't arrive? How do you write like you need it to survive? How do you write every second you're alive, every second you're alive?

Washington approaches Alexandra with a proposition. Again. I'm still sore about the last time.

"They are asking me to lead," he says. "I'm doing the best I can to get the people that I need. I'm asking you to be my right hand man.

Alexandra nods, unsurprisingly. The arrogance, why, it's enough to make me-- "Treasury or State?" she asks smoothly.

But Washington doesn't hear her. "I know it's a lot to ask--"

"Treasury or State?" she asks again, louder this time.

"To leave behind the world you know--"

This time she steps right in front of him. "Sir," she asks loudly, "do you want me to run the Treasury or State department?"

Silence for a moment, then:

"Treasury." 

Alexandra beams at the President, and he smiles back. "Let's go," she says, smug in her victory as his right hand man. Again. 

But when Elijah finds out about his wife's new government position, things get ugly. He's pissed, and I don't blame him. He has to stay home, raising children without their mother, while she's off arguing for a living. 

"Alexandra..." Elijah says dangerously.

She barely looks at him. "I have to go," she says shortly, hastily shoving dresses and corsets into a case. She doesn't see the hard lines in her husband's face, or the solitary tear that courses down the side of his face to drip off the end of his chin.

"Alexandra--"

Finally she turns, grabbing her husband by the shoulders, spinning him so that he can see where Washington stands, issuing orders to people who scurry to complete their tasks. "Look around, look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now."

He gazes at her blankly for a moment, taking a moment to register the betrayal. Finally Elijah just says, "Helpless," in a way that sounds like, Man, I am screwed. 

"They are asking me to lead," Alexandra explains, at last noticing her husband's tears. She grabs his hand, gently this time, and her big brown eyes are kinder than before.

Ripping his hand away, Elijah's eyes are cold and hard. "Look around, isn't this enough?" he asks, gesturing to himself and little Philip as if to say, Are we not good enough? Are you too good for us?

"What would be enough? To be satisfied?" he begs, gaze softening.

Then everyone starts talking at once. Washington's doing his "History has its eyes on you," thing, Elijah's continuing to ask, "What would be enough?" and I decide, hey, let's join in all the fun! I get right in her face and finally let loose my thoughts.

"Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? Soon that attitude's gonna be your doom! Why do you fight like you're running out of time?"

"WHY DO YOU FIGHT LIKE HISTORY HAS ITS EYES ON YOU!" we all shout at once. It's almost like we planned it.

She stands up straighter, determination obvious in the way she holds herself. "I am not throwing away my shot!" she yells.

"Just you wait!" we all echo, some of us meaning different things by it.

"I am not throwing away my shot!"

"Just you wait!"

"I am Alexandra Hamilton!" she yells, like we don't already know. All around me, people are chanting, feeding her already over-inflated ego.

"Alexandra Hamilton, Hamilton! Just you wait!"

Cheers erupt from the side of the crowd that is on her side, while the others are silent, wiping away tears or clenching their fists. I stand somewhere in the middle, not really part of either side. Just you wait, she had said. Well, thankfully I'm the master of waiting. My time will come.


	25. What'd I Miss?

1789.

Burr's POV

How does the bastard, orphan, immigrant, decorated war vet unite the colonies through more debt? I ask the Alexandra in my head, and she makes a face. Fight the other Founding Fathers till she has to forfeit? Have it all, lose it all, you ready for more yet?

She's the Treasury Secretary. Washington's the President. Every American experiment sets the precedent. Not so fast! I say, when she starts to celebrate. Looking back at me confused, she goes to question me, but I give her the answer first. Someone came along to resist her. Pissed her off until we had a two-party system.

You haven't met him yet, you haven't had the chance, because he's been kicking ass as the ambassador to France. Bur someone's got to keep the American promise! You simply must meet Thomas. 

"Thomas!" I shout to the man disembarking from the ship. He turns, scanning the crowd, and I wave up at him. Around me I hear whispers, people asking, "Thomas Jefferson? He's coming home?"

"Thomas Jefferson's coming home! Lord, he's been off in Paris for so long!"

Jefferson's POV

Standing on the bow of a ship, waiting to disembark, I hear someone shout my name. The lone voice is soon echoed, and I hear a crowd form, all discussing me. It warms my heart. Deciding that the people have waited long enough to hear me, I start to sing.

"France is following us to Revolution, there is no more status quo," I start, and the entire company drops out, reveling in the glory that is Thomas Jefferson's voice. "But the sun comes up and the world still spins.

"I helped Lafayette draft a declaration, then I said, 'I gotta go. I gotta be in Monticello.' Now the work at home begins." This next part is sung as I carefully descend down the gangway into the crowded streets.

Emerging into the masses, I smile my brightest before asking, "So what'd I miss? What'd I miss? Virginia, my home sweet home, I wanna give you a kiss!" I sing, dancing around energetically, earning giggles and laughs from sweet-looking young women. I have to let them down gently. I can't have them thinking the wrong thoughts, though I can't blame them. I'd want a piece of me, too. 

"I've been in Paris meeting lots of different ladies..." aaaand they're gone. "I guess I basically missed the late eighties! I traveled the wide, wide world and came back to this..."

Don't get me wrong when I say that. I love my country, and I'm so happy to be home.

Time skip

When I get to my house, there's a letter on my desk from the President. Haven't even put my bag down yet. I get the nervous butterflies feeling in my stomach, but I quickly brush it away, and address one of my slaves. My very beautiful slave.

"Sally, be a lamb, darling, won't you open it?" I ask sweetly, still too anxious to do it myself, what with the tremor in my hands.

As she reads it out to me, I hear the President's assembling a cabinet, and I am to be the Secretary of State! Great! And I'm already Senate approved! I give her a quick peck on the cheek and rush out, yelling instructions to my other slaves, ignoring the flush that's creeping up her cheeks. The men need to get my bags loaded! I just got home and now I'm heading to New York!

Heading to New York

During the whole carriage ride there, I'm giddy with excitement. I look at the rolling fields, and I can't believe that we are free! This empowering feeling saturates my entire being, and I'm ready to face whatever's awaiting me in NYC!

But who's waiting for me when I step in the place? My friend James Madison, red in the face. He's coughing and sniffling, but as he gets closer, I see that the colour isn't a symptom of his mysterious ailment. He grabs my arm so tightly that tears come to my eyes, and I bite my tongue to keep from screaming. I respond, "What's going on?" in my best manly-man voice, hiding the pain he's inflicting on me.

Practically throwing me out of the earshot of others, he says quietly, "Thomas, we are engaged in a battle for our nation's very soul. Can you get us out of the mess we're in?"

I rub the arm he's finally released and nod, since there's no time to answer, because he's continuing, getting more and more worked up with each sentence. "Hamilton's new financial plan is nothing more than government control!" Who's Hamilton? "I've been fighting for the South alone. Where have you been?" James accuses, and I smile awkwardly.

"Uh... France?"

Then this short-ass man shoots out a hand and yanks down on my neck. I'm so close to him that I can feel his hot breath coming uneven. While I hang there like a limp rag doll he continues, turning a blind eye to the fact that he's squeezing the life out of me.

"We have to win," he says, almost calmly, but I know James well enough to know that he's using his Listen up, you little magenta punk tone. I incline my head the tiniest bit to show my understanding, though it pains me beyond belief. Finally he releases his grip, and I can breath again. Massaging my neck, I make a note to wear scarves and collars for the rest of the week.

What'd I miss? I repeat sourly to myself again. What'd I miss? Headfirst into a political abyss! I've got my first cabinet meeting today, and I've gotta think of something to say! I'm already on my way! Let's get to the bottom of this!

James escorts me down the hall to where the meetings are taking place, and the silence is nearly unbearable. There's none of his usual witty commentary, and I'm surprised to find that I miss it.

When the President greets me, I'm grateful for the break from my thoughts. This meeting's my first, and it's good to make a positive impression. "Mr. Jefferson, welcome home!"

He goes to shake my hand, but a green blur intercepts his outstretched hand. "Mr. Jefferson?" asks a curious voice coming from the blur. It comes in focus in time for me to see -- wait, what? "Alexandra Hamilton," she finishes, shaking my hand enthusiastically, her perfect ponytail bringing out everything right about her face -- her eyes, her delicate features. And in that moment, I realize...

I hate her.

Pushing her gently out of the way, President Washington says again, "Mr. Jefferson, welcome home," and shakes my hand. I start to wonder if the tired aura he has about him is caused partly by her antics.

Many others come up to congratulate me, shake hands, and each of them says mostly the same thing. "Mr. Jefferson, welcome home!" or, "You've been off in Paris for so long!" It's a tad tiresome, but then again, it's not unpleasant. It's nice to know I'm still someone important. When the crowd of well-wishers finally disperses and we take our seats, one thought runs through my head again.

What'd I miss?

I'm never missing anything again.


	26. Cabinet Battle #1

Jefferson's POV

This is big. Possibly a pivotal point in my career. But Tom, I hear you ask, aren't you nervous?

Not in the slightest. I'm going to whip this immigrant so hard, she's not going to remember where she came from.

As usual, the man himself starts things off. "Ladies and gentlemen," cries President Washington, "you could've been anywhere in the world tonight, but instead you're here with us in New York City! Are you ready for a cabinet meeting?"

A roar answers his mostly rhetorical question, and the excitement courses through my body like liquid fire. I'm going to destroy this woman who thinks she's got a place in this room.

"The issue on the table: Secretary Hamilton's plan to assume state's debts and assume a national bank. Secretary Jefferson, you have the floor, sir."

He gestures to me and James, and we stand and make our way to the middle of the room. I straighten by purple coat, and, clearing my throat, start out strong.

"'Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.' We fought for these ideals, we shouldn't settle for less. These are wise words, enterprising men," I shoot a pointed look at the only woman in the room, "quote 'em. Don't act surprised, you guys, 'cause I wrote them!"

I take a moment to soak in all the praise and applause before continuing, focusing my efforts on Hamilton herself. "Oh, but Hamilton forgets. Her plan would have the government assume state's debts. Now place your bets as to who that benefits. The very seat of government where Hamilton sits!"

Having traveled the length of the room, I aim a vicious kick to her seat, and she leaps up, her face flushing red. "Not true--" she starts, but I use my cane to push her back down on her seat. It's still my turn.

"Ooh, it the shoe fits, wear it!" I scoff, turning away from her and facing my audience instead. "If New York's in debt, why should Virginia bear it? Uh, our debts are paid, I'm afraid, don't tax the South 'cause we've got it made in the shade."

There are shouts, but I soldier on. "In Virginia we plant seeds in the ground. We create. You just want to move our money around. This financial plan's an outrageous demand and it's too many damn pages for any man to understand!" I say, almost bored as I flip through the papers. On the word 'man' I toss them over my shoulder, and she hurries to collect them, glaring swords at me when I deliberately step on one.

"Stand with me in the land of the free!" I yell, the crowd behind me. "And pray to God we never see Hamilton's candidacy! Look," I say, bringing down the volume, "when Britain taxed our tea, we got frisky. Imagine what gon' happen when you try to tax our whisky."

As I take my seat again with Madison breathing hard next to me, a single person in the back screams, "That's my alcohol!"

"Thank you, Secretary Jefferson," says the President, sounding anything but grateful. More like reluctant, or exasperated. "Secretary Hamilton, your response."

She stands up, brushes her hair out of her face, then says politely, "Thomas, that was a real nice declaration." Then her expression warps and she yells, "Welcome to the present, we're running a real nation! Would you like to join us, or stay mellow doing whatever the hell it is you do in Monticello?" she asks, dancing around in mockery of me. I stiffen. This is war.

"If we assume the debts the union gets a new line of credit, a financial diuretic. How do you not get it? If we're aggressive and competitive, the union gets a boost. You'd rather give it a sedative?"

Jeers and stomps greet me, and I feel small. This nobody has no right--

She cuts off my train of thought. "A civics lesson from a slaver. Hey neighbour," she says, a hard light entering her eyes as she thinks of nights long ago with old friends, "your debts are paid 'cause you don't pay for labour. 'We plant seeds in the south. We create!'" Hamilton mocks me, using my own words as weapons against me. "Yeah, keep ranting. We know who's really doing the planting."

I sink lower in my seat, unable to stop the embarrassed red from flooding my cheeks. So this is how James must feel all the time. Speaking of, he doesn't look so good. I ask him what's wrong, but he just waves me away.

"And another thing," God, does she ever shut up! "Mr. Age-of-Enlightenment, don't lecture me about the war, you didn't fight in it. You think I'm frightened of you, man, we almost died in the trench while you were off getting high with the French!" 

SHE ACTUALLY COMES UP TO ME AND LAUGHS IN MY FACE WHAT DO I DO JAMES HELP ME!

The immigrant's voice has become soft and mocking, spoken directly into my ear. "Thomas Jefferson, always hesitant with the President. Reticent -- there isn't a plan he doesn't jettison!" Looking over at my friend who's doubled over in pain, she takes a cheap shot. "Madison, you're mad as a hatter, son, take your medicine! Damn, you're in worse shape than the national debt is in!"

I tense up, my hands forming fists at my sides. She doesn't notice because she's busy saying to the audience while gesturing to us, "Sittin' there useless as two shits." She turns, then says with malice, "Hey, turn around, bed over, I'll show you where my shoe fits!"

Springing out of my chair, I lunge for her, but President Washington catches me and hauls me out of the room, while I scream curses at the top of my lungs.

"Excuse me?" he asks after depositing me a safe distance away. "Madison, Jefferson, take a walk. We'll reconvene after a brief recess. Hamilton!"

She holds her head high with defiance and answers, "Sir!"

"A word."

Washington pulls her behind him towards his office. On their way there, James whispers in her ear, "You don't have the votes."

God bless that man. I join him, yelling to be heard across the distance. "You don't have the votes!"

I then let loose my most demeaning laugh, and I see her straighten. I smile, shark-like. It never fails.

"You're gonna need congressional approval and you don't have the votes!"

James joins me at the doorway, and we shake our heads. "Such a blunder, sometimes it makes me wonder why I even bring the thunder," I say dramatically, before leaving.

"Why he even brings the thunder," echoes James, before following my exit.

Washington's POV

I slam the door to my office shut so hard, I think I broke something. I thought Alexandra was better than this, dammit, I know she's better than this! I take a deep breath, release it, then say, as much to myself as to her, "You wanna pull yourself together?"

She only scoffs, folding her arms in and turning her back to me. "I'm sorry," she says, totally not sorry at all, "these Virginians are birds of a feather."

Typical. She'd rather blame a whole swath of people than admit she'd crossed the line. I feel my temper roar its ugly head and it explodes out of me. "Young lady, I'm from Virginia, so watch your mouth!"

"So we let Congress get held hostage by the South?" she asks, wheeling around and spreading her arms wide like that explains everything.

Calmly, I say, "You need the votes."

Alexandra disagrees, speaking slowly like I'm a dumb child instead of the President of the United States of America. "No, we need bold strokes. We need this plan."

Again, I say simply, "No, you need to convince more folks."

"James Madison won't talk to me," she complains, attempting to use weak excuses to support her horrible course of action. "That's a non-starter." 

I want to hit her on the head with an anvil. Of course he won't help you! I want to scream. You've humiliated him in public for a condition he has no control over, insulted him for his beliefs and opinions, and still believe you're the one who's been wronged. Where is the brilliance I saw in you during the Revolution?

Forcing a smile instead, I say, "Winning was easy, young one, governing's harder."

Each of us take a moment to bring ourselves back to that moment, to reflect on the person we were at that time, the decisions we had to make, how that shaped our characters and made us into the people we are today. And by each of us, I mean me, because Alexandra keeps on whining about how difficult things are for her. Little doe she know she's her own worst enemy.

"They're being intransigent."

"You have to find a compromise," I urge her, not able to stress the point enough.

Running a frustrated hand through her perfect hair, she yells, "But they don't have a plan, they just hate mine!" I watch as strands fall around her flushed face in uneven waves that betray how much pressure she's feeling.

"Convince them otherwise," I say, like this is obvious, because it is! For someone so bright, she can be incredibly thick at times.

Alexandra's not buying it. She looks at me and asks, "And what happens if I don't get Congressional approval?"

Silence falls, then I give it to her bluntly. "I imagine they'll call for your removal."

My office is dead quiet, then she breaks it, her voice meek. "Sir --"

But I'm not having it today. She needs to learn, and I'm sick of teaching her. "Figure it out, Alexandra!" I snap, and she straightens immediately, composing herself at once. "That's an order from your commander!"


	27. Take A Break

Elijah's POV

I sit with my son at the piano bench, lovingly teaching him to play. It's slow going and frustrating, but I'm not about to give up on him just yet. I remember when my mother taught me. I wasn't a very good pupil.

"Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf," I sing, and Philip's clear little voice echoes mine. This way he gets French and music studies at the same time.

I smile at him, and he squirms happily, almost falling off the bench. "Good!" I say, then continue. "Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf..."

He repeats it, and I change the line slightly. "Sept, huit, neuf..."

Adjusting to the flow of the music perfectly, Philip answers, "Sept, huit, neuf..."

"Sept, huit, neuf..."

"Sept, huit, neuf..."

Then the both of us sing the numbers again, this time in English. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine!"

Hamilton's POV

Strains of my husband and son singing bleed through the walls, but I barely notice them as I sit at my desk, composing a letter while simultaneously stressing about my debt plan. After I finish, I read through my work with satisfaction.

My dearest, Angelica,

"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day." I trust you'll understand the reference to another Scottish tragedy without my having to name the play.

They think me Macbeth, and ambition is my folly. I'm a polymath, a pain in the ass, a massive pain. And Madison is Banquo, Jefferson's Macduff, and Birnam Wood is Congress on its way to Dunsinane.

And there you are an ocean away. Do you have to live an ocean away? Thoughts of you subside, then I get another letter. I cannot put the notion away.

"Take a break," says a voice, frustrated. I look up and see Elijah standing above me, arms crossed over his body and his forehead creased. Dismissing him, I turn back to my work.

"I am on my way," I mutter absent-mindedly, already back in my own little world. It's not that I don't love my husband, it's that he never seems to understand what I'm trying to accomplish. Some of us were meant for more than this monotonous lifestyle.

Suddenly I feel the earth shift under me, and I sway violently, instantly alert. My head whips around, and I notice that he's simply pulled my chair back. Bending down, he makes eye contact with me and says clearly, "There's a little surprise before supper, and it cannot wait."

Waving my hand, I say, "I'll be there in just a minute, save my plate." I can feel Elijah's stare boring a hole through my magnificent brain in a moment of silence that is absolutely terrible.

Then: "Alexandra..."

Conceding, I throw my hands in the air and rise from my seat. "Okay, okay," I laugh, but there's no humour in the statement. We make our way down to the living room, where my son is waiting.

"Your son is nine years old today," Elijah says, in a much lighter tone than before, and behind him, Philip blushes furiously. "He has something he'd like to say. He's been practicing all day. Philip, take it away!"

He steps forward, keeping his eyes down and rubbing anxious circles into the palms of his hands. "Mummy, mummy, look," he mumbles, before starting the portion he made up all on his own.

"My name is Philip. I am a poet. I wrote this poem just to show it. And I just turned nine. You can write rhymes but you can't write mine." Philip says this all without emotion, all the while shaking in his shoes.

Then I chime in, "What?" I've never been so proud of my son as I am right now. He looks up, then melts into the happiest little boy I've ever seen.

"I practice French and play piano with my father!" he shouts happily, becoming more and more excited with every encouraging comment I make. "I have a sister but I want a little brother! My mummy's trying to start America's bank! Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq!" he yells, then attacks me in a giant hug before dashing off, no doubt to tell his sister what just happened.

As I watch him go, a hand presses gently on my shoulder. I turn, and see Elijah standing behind me, all frustration or malice or whatever gone from his face. Instead I see the caring and kind man I married.

"Take a break," he says softly, pulling me in for a soft kiss. I know he's worried about me, but I shrug it off. I can't afford to leave, what with the position I'm in.

Inspiration strikes. I pull away, then change the topic swiftly, exclaiming, "Hey, our kid is pretty great!"

Disappointment clouds my husband's face and I know I haven't fooled him. Grabbing my wrists, he persists, his concern evident in his mannerisms. "Run away with us for the summer, let's go upstate!"

I sag. He's making all of this so mush harder than it needs to be. I put my head in my hands to fend of the incoming headache and say, "Elijah, I've got so much on my plate. We've talked about this."

Hands explore my back, working at and dissolving the tense knots my muscles have twisted themselves into, and I can't help but sigh in relief. As he massages me, I hear him talk, the words hypnotic. "We can all go stay with our father. There's a lake I know..."

And again with the lake! It nearly breaks the spell he's put on me. We've had this discussion so many times that I can recite it by memory. "I know!" I growl, hating that stupid lake, and my loving husband, and Jefferson for being such an insufferable ass. But I also feel like crying, and Elijah's steady hands are just making me want to melt into them so I don't have to deal with the pains of my existence.

"In a nearby park..." GOOD GOD MAN! Forget about taking a break, how about you take a hint?

Rubbing my eyes, I say more kindly, "I'd love to go," despite the fact that I actually wouldn't really fancy it, and this situation, though stressful and undesirable, is a wonderful excuse not to go visit my well-meaning father-in-law.

Elijah pops his head over my shoulder and into the corner of my vision, and smiles a smile that melts my bones and turns me into a mass of goo. "You and I can go," he says, incredibly suggestive with his eyebrows, "when the night gets dark..."

I concede, grasping his hands and touching my forehead to his, forgetting my worries and that stupid lake. "I will try to get away," I promise, and he smiles softly once more before kissing me gently on the cheek.

As he stands and exits to put Philip to bed, I feel the secure feeling leave with him, leaving me alone and shivering with my thoughts.

Time skip

My dearest Alexandra,

You must get through to Jefferson. Sit down with him and compromise, don't stop until you agree. Your favourite older sister, Angelica, reminds you there's someone in your corner all the way across the sea.

In a letter I received from you two weeks ago, I noticed a comma in the middle of a phrase. It changed the meaning. Did you intend this? One strokes and you've consumed my waking days. It says: "My dearest Angelica," with a comma after "dearest." You've written, "My dearest, Angelica."

Anyway, all this to say. I'm coming home this summer at Elijah's invitation. I'll be there with your family if you make your way upstate. I know you're very busy, I know your work's important, but I'm crossing the ocean and I just can't wait.

You won't be an ocean away, you'll only be a moment away.

I smile down at her elegant handwriting, swift and cunning and witty, just like her. I bring the letter close to my heart, and her soft voice flows around me like steam, pulling me back from the precipice that I know I am perched on, saving me from the black abyss of broken dreams and fallen soldiers.

"Alexandra!" I hear my husband call, and I'm momentarily puzzled by the childish ecstasy in his voice. "Come downstairs! Angelica's arriving today!"

I tear myself away from my desk and papers, I trip down the stairs in my rush, and barely avoid landing flat on my face. At the foot of the stairs I hesitate, my eyes raking over Angelica, playing spot-the-difference. Suddenly I feel the most irrational insecurities grip me. She's not here for you, a nasty voice rasps in the back of my mind, and I shake my head to dislodge it, choosing to focus on the reunion in front of me.

My husband is embracing his sister, letting tears stroll leisurely down his cheeks. In a heartbreaking whisper, he says, "Angelica. It's been... too long." His voice breaks, and he leans in further.

Stroking his back, Angelica murmured comforting words into his ear, slowing his breathing back to its regular pulse and stopping his uncontrollable shaking. "Elijah. Elijah, it's okay. It's okay. It's all okay."

Finally I gather the courage to step into the light. "The Schuyler siblings," I sing, remembering that tune from a night out with the boys, although the memory is bittersweet, like most of my life seems doomed to be. Without Peter, the room is too small, too empty, too dark. I never knew how much we needed his vibrant energy and wardrobe.

She turns to me, and my heart stops. I see the thin veil of moisture shimmering over her amber eyes that she's desperately striving to hide. She says my name, and I feel something inside me break. "Alexandra..."

I smile, now trying to hide my own tears. All I manage is, "Hi."

Angelica lets go of Elijah and says, "It's good to see your face," as if she's talking to her brother, but I know a part of it is directed my way. I'm just left to wonder how much she means by it, if she thinks of me what I think of her.

"Angelica, tell my wife John Adams spends the summer with his family," Elijah says, and his statement saps me of all my strength. We're back on this. I told him I'd try, and I really did, but it wasn't enough.

Strapping on my fake happiness, I retort good-naturedly, "Angelica, tell this man John Adams doesn't have a real job anyways."

Immediately her face falls. "You're not joining us?" she asks, and I can taste the hurt in her statement. "Wait!" she begs, and I want to throw myself into the Hudson for what I have to say next.

"I'm afraid I cannot join you upstate," I explain, and turn my back to the two of them, calling on every scrap of strength I have to get me through this endeavour.

Angelica's not giving up. She moves to face me, and I see the cogs, wheels and bells toiling away behind her visage as she peels away every strip of what makes Alexandra who she is in an attempt to understand. I open my mouth to speak, but she places her hands around my face and I can't remember how to breathe.

"But Alexandra, I came all this way," She pleads. I stand, transfixed, praying to a God I've never asked anything of before to deliver me, or for a lightning bolt to strike me where I stand.

No divine intervention. I wish I could say I was surprised.

Well, I tried.

My husband walks to stand beside her, and everything immediately gets that much worse. "She came all this way," he says, and I want to scream. I know she did, and I was thinking how great it would be to see her again, but then y'all got to go and do something like this and my heart rate goes up and my breathing gets ragged and my hands get sweaty and I start panicking and hyperventilating, and HOLY SHIT I'M HYPERVENTILATING! (And I'm rambling, and do you know how bad that looks on papers? I mean, nothing says amateur like a run-on sentence, you know what I'm saying?)

"All this way..." Angelica finally drops her hands, and I feel the feeling come back into my cheekbones.

Both of them say together, "Take a break!"

Um, no. "You know I have to get my plan through Congress," I say, like it should be obvious, because it is! I mean, it's not like it's super important or anything!

"Run away with us for the summer, let's go upstate!"

I play another card, this time saying, "I lose my job if I don't get this job through Congress!"

The two of them don't even acknowledge me, they just keep on going. "We can all go stay with our father!"

Then they branch off and each does their own thing, and the only way for me to handle it is to tune it out. How does neither of them notice what this conversation is doing to me? I can't deal with this kind of pressure!

When they end, I look back up at them. "I have to get my plan through Congress."

Angelica goes to say something, but I cut her off, and something about my manner ends the debate once and for all. I've won.

"I can't stop until I get my plan through Congress."


	28. Say No to This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept Maria as she is, because I find her a very compelling character, and I just realized that this story is lacking in female characters, and that just won't do! Plus, I enjoy writing Alexandra as a very flamboyant bisexual. So anyways.

Alexandra's POV

Hearing footfalls, I whirl around, desperately trying to cover the twin tear tracks that are streaked through the grime that I've allowed to accumulate on my immaculate skin. I see it's only Aaron, and I react without thinking, flinging myself at him, abandoning any attempt at preserving my dignity as I collapse into his arms, sobbing incoherently. He strokes my hair and whispers nonsense into my ears, slowly calming me. As my breaths stop hitching, I start to decipher what he's saying.

"There's nothing like summer in the city," his rich voice sings quietly, and I hum along to the tune, letting the words wash over me. "Someone under stress meets someone looking pretty. There's trouble in the air, you can smell it."

Aaron, no! I can't do this again!

"And Alexandra's by herself. I'll let her tell it." I pull away from him, scanning his eyes for an explanation of what just happens, letting my tear-stained face morph into a reflection of the turmoil and betrayal that he's put me through. He only smiles his sad, subtle smile, and lets go of my wrists. Leaning in, Aaron plants a kiss on my forehead, before a gust of cold wind takes him from me in a shower of sparks.

And when he's gone, memories spring unbidden to my mind, overthrowing my carefully constructed state of mind, drowning my thoughts in civil unrest.

That night long ago

I hadn't slept in a week, I was weak, I was awake. You've never seen a bastard orphan in need of a break. Longing for Angelica, missing my Elijah. That's when Miss Maria Reynolds walked into my life. 

I was sitting at my desk, writing and writing and hating every word. The sentences didn't flow like they should. Screaming in frustration, I hurled a lamp against the wall, watching with morbid satisfaction as the pieces smashed in every direction. Luckily for my furniture, a knock sounded on the door. I swung it open to see a beautiful but harried woman with dark hair and skin, clothed in a flattering red dress. She said:

"I know you are an honourable woman, and I'm so sorry to bother you at home, but I don't know where to go, and I came here all alone," she had said, and I just couldn't turn her away. The faded tears, the chin held high, the strong woman vibe was just too alluring.

I refocused on what she was saying, and what I hear made my blood boil. "My husband's doing me wrong, beating me, cheating me, mistreating me. Suddenly he's up and gone. I don't have the means to go on."

So I offered her a loan, I offered to walk her home. She bowed her head, breaking eye contact in respect, and said, her voice smooth and flowing the way my writing refused to"

"You're too kind, ma'am."

Stumbling into my desk, my heart leapt and my mind despaired. My heart sang, and my mind wept. My heart flew and my mind sank. And, as always, it left my soul, what makes me who I am, running back and forth between the two of them screaming in anguish, unable to commit to any one course of action. God have mercy on me.

I gave her thirty bucks that I had socked away for... something, I can't remember what. I know it was important, but here in her presence, everything pales. Am I married? I don't even know. She lived a block away, and as we approached a tidy-looking house, she said:

"This one's mine, ma'am."

Coming to a halt on her front step, I fidgeted and cleared my throat awkwardly, trying to dispel the odd feeling in my throat. Eventually I said, "Well, um, I should head home," and turned to do so, when I felt a cool hand on mine, pulling me through the doorway. She lead me to her bed, let her legs spread, and said:

"Stay?"

I forgot how to breathe. I felt her heart pressing down on me, her mouth only inches from mine, the rest of her looking so damn hot I swear she'd set my heart on fire. Looking up at her, my voice cracked. "Hey..." I managed to stammer out, unsure of how to handle the situation.

Clearly not. She leaned in closer, and her hot breath caressed my face as she whispered, "Hey..."

That's when I began to pray. Lord, show me how to say no to this! I don't know how to say no to this! But, my God, she looked so helpless, and her body's screaming, "Hell, yes!"

She bent her head and started to nip at my neck, and I couldn't help but let out a moan. The whole thing was so out of control, and I needed to stop it! She was stroking me and making me confuse what I wanted with what the other thing I wanted, and though I knew what I should do, I didn't do it. But still my brain was shrieking:

No, show me how to say no to this! I don't know how to say no to this! In my mind I'm trying to go, then her mouth's on mine, and I don't say no.

And as the two of us sank into the bedsheets, I could almost banish the sounds of my conscience.

No! No! Say no to this!  
No! No! Say no to this!  
No! No! Say no to this!  
No! No! Say no to this! 

Roughly a month later

I wish I could say that was the last time. I said that last time, it became a pastime. A month into the endeavour I received a letter from a Mr. James Reynolds, even better. The letter went like this:

Dear Ma'am,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and in a prosperous enough position to put wealth into the pockets of people like me, down on their luck. You see, that was my wife you decided to--

I dropped the letter. In that moment, it was as hot as the flames of hell, and I was convinced that I could feel them already, climbing higher and higher, licking at my feet, my hands, the hem of my skirts. "Fuck," I swore, realizing how bad this really was for me. 

Concentrating on keeping my breathing steady, I resumed.

Uh-Oh! You made the wrong sucker a cuckold! So time to pay the piper for the pants you unbuckled! And hey, you can keep seeing my whore wife, if the price is right: if not, I'm telling your husband!

Well, that was not good news. Angered and panicked, I ran to her place, screamed, "How could you!" in her face. She said:

"No, ma'am!"

Half-dressed, apologetic. A mess, she looked pathetic, nothing like she had before on those many, many occasions. She fell to my feet, buried her head in my skirts, and cried:

"Please don't go, ma'am!"

Yanking my skirts away, I leaned down and snarled in her face, "So was your whole story a setup?"

"I don't know about any letter!" she said, trying to reassure me, but I was having none of her lies. I'd had enough.

"Stop crying, goddammit," I shouted at her, only causing her tears to fall harder, "get up!" I didn't notice that I was scaring her, or maybe I did. I don't know, and I don't care, and I don't care that I don't care.

She grabbed my arm, and I turned, looking on her face with disgust. "I didn't know any better!" she sobbed, and I maintained eye contact for a moment before wrenching myself from her grasp.

"I am ruined," I gasped, collapsing on my desk, using all my strength not to break down.

She follows me, peppering me with tears and reasonings and explanations that I barely hear. She says, "Please don't leave me with him!" then something, something, "helpless! Just give him what he wants and you can have me! Whatever you want, if you pay, you can stay!"

Through the barrage of words, I could only form thoughts. I am helpless-- how could I do this? I don't want you! I don't want you! I don't--

But I didn't finish that thought, because I did want her. I wanted her with every lustful fibre in me, and I just couldn't resist. 

Since I couldn't make a decision, I stalled, hoping for heavenly support. Lord, show me how to say no to this! I don't know how to say no to this! 'Cause the situation's helpless, and her body's screaming, "Hell, yes!"

No, show me how to say no to this! How can I say no to this? There is nowhere I can go. When her body's on mine I don not say no!

I broke the kiss to moan out, "Yes!" and she responded, our embrace growing more and more passionate with every exclamation, though my brain was still telling me how wrong it was, how stupid.

"Yes!"  
"Yes!"  
Say no to this!

"Yes!"  
"Yes!"  
Say no to this!

"Yes!"  
"Yes!"  
Say no to this!

"Yes!"

Say no to this... 

I didn't say no to this. 

She looked me dead in the eye as we lay there, and she said, "Don't say no to this."

There is nowhere I can go.

James Reynolds stepped out into the light, and I wondered how long he'd been there, how much he'd seen. Walking towards me, he said, twirling his cowboy hat, "So?"

And in that key moment, I made the worst decision possible. I fumbled in my bag, drew out a stack of bills, and said to him, "Nobody needs to know."

He simply nodded, then left, taking his wife with him, and I was left alone to contemplate how I brought about my own demise.


	29. The Room Where It Happens

Burr's POV (obviously)

I spot Alexandra sitting by herself on a park bench, staring off into space. I approach her with a smile on my face and say, "Madam Secretary!"

She starts, before realizing it's only me. "Mr. Burr, sir," she says distractedly, a shadow still covering her eyes when when she looks up at me. 

Taking a seat beside her, I attempt to keep the conversation alive. "Have you heard the news about good old General Mercer?" I ask, and she shakes her head. He was a good man, I reflect, and one of the best leaders anyone could ask for.

Alexandra's not biting. "No," she states, and I'm starting to get worried. Why is she silent? She's never quiet.

"You know Clermont Street?" Nod. "They renamed it after him. The Mercer legacy is secure." I say, hoping to provoke a response.

All she says is, "Sure."

Sighing, I take in the summer fields, tasting the excitement and energy that is alive in the city. Leaves and flowers and perfect blue skies put my mind to ease almost immediately, and I feel my resolve strengthen. "And all he had to do was die," I say impulsively, recalling another hot day and another General, and wishing silently that I had it all that easy.

Finally she cracks a smile and says, with the same longing and just a touch of false righteous indignation, "Yeah, that's a lot less work!"

I poke her gently in the ribs. "We ought to give it a try," I tease, and am rewarded with her wonderful laugh, which lightens me even though she's laughing at me. Then it hits me that I haven't heard her laugh in what seems like years, and my mood becomes thoughtful and concerned.

Maybe Alexandra senses the shift in my emotions, and so she falls back into silence, but I'm determined to figure out what's bothering her. "So, how're you going to get your debt plan through?" I ask half a beat later, trying and failing not to sound like an interrogator.

She takes in a breath, and I lean in further, hanging on every word she says, for no particular reason. She laughs, "I guess I'm gonna finally have to listen to you!"

"Really?" I can't believe it! She's taking my advice? This is the best day of my life!

A magnificent smile spreads across her face, and then she says, "Talk less," making her voice go as deep as possible, making it ooze charisma and promises, "smile more!" She looks back at me, that smile still on her face, and all the air goes out of my lungs.

I manage to cough out something that sounds more like a medical symptom than a laugh, but Alexandra doesn't question it, which doesn't surprise me. Someone as high up and important as her doesn't have time to notice people like Aaron Burr, sir. You know what? Let's just mock him for being smart enough to know when to keep his head down. Let's make every second with him a constant reminder of how insignificant he is. That sounds like fun.

"Do whatever it takes to get my plan on the Congress floor," she finishes, proud of what she's just said. 

Turning to look at her, I say, "Now, Madison and Jefferson are merciless." 

Translation: I hope they tear you apart.

"Well," Alexandra shrugs it off, "hate the sin, love the sinner." 

Luckily for her health, Madison pokes his head around the door and yells across the field, "HAMILTON!" before lapsing into a coughing fit, muttering something about allergies, and "Stupid air!"

Apologetic, she looks at me. "I'm sorry, Burr, I've got to go," she says, patting me on the shoulder, and I feel like a jerk for the thoughts I was feeling. I don't want her to go, though, because I know something's not right with her.

"But--" I start, only to be cut off by another offhand remark.

"Decisions are happening over dinner."

SHE DID NOT JUST SAY THAT! NOOOOOO!

But she did, and I watch her walk away, skirts flouncing and her hair floating behind her in the breeze.

Time skip

Two Virginians and an immigrant walk into a room, diametrically opposed, foes. They emerge with a compromise, having opened doors that were previously closed. BROS, I think, sneering at the statement.

The immigrant emerges with unprecedented financial power, a system she can shape however she wants. As if her ego wasn't large enough already. The Virginians emerge with the nation's capitol. And here's the pièce de résistance:

Oh, here we go, I have time to think, before my mind launches into another tirade, working at a million miles a minute. No one else was in the room where it happened, the room where it happened. No one else was in the room where it happened, the room where it happened, the room where it happened. 

No one really knows how the game is played, the art of the trade, how the sausage gets made. We just assume that it happens, but no one else is in the room where it happens.

The only account that we have of their meeting is a letter written by Thomas Jefferson, so who knows how accurate it is. Thomas claims--

Speak of the devil. He's come to gloat about how amazing he is. He got the Great Alexandra Hamilton to bow and scrape and compromise, which means he's practically a national hero.

"Alexandra was on Washington's doorstep one day, in distress and disarray," Jefferson says, his southern accent combining with his theatrics that make me want to puke. But I can't stop listening, because I need to know how the deal went down. Thomas claims, "Alexandra said--"

He stops, preens his hair and says, in a cheap imitation of a woman's falsetto, "I have nowhere else to turn to!" The Virginian twirls and holds a dainty hand to his forehead, earning jeers and laughter from the crowd that's started to gather. He laughs along with them before switching back to his regular voice and continuing the narrative. "And basically begged me to join the fray!"

"I approached Madison," someone produces the man out of thin air, coughing and sneezing, and the crowd roars louder, "and said, 'I know you hate her, but let's hear what she has to say!' Well, I arranged the meeting. I arranged the menu, the venue, the seating."

Shaking my head at the crowd, I get myself involved in this reenactment, because why not!

"But!" I cry, jumping onto the stage like a ninja, shoving Jefferson out of the way, "No one else was in the room where it happened, the room where it happened, the room where it happened! No one else was in the room where it happened, the room where it happened, the room where it happened!"

"No one really knows how the parties get to yesssss!" I draw out the s sound, and the people go wild, stomping their feet and joining in on the parts. "The pieces that are sacrificed in every game of chessssss! We just assume that it happens!"

"But no one else is in the room where it happens."

During my part, Madison had made his way up to the stage, and he not-so-subtly shoves me out of the way to allow for his segment of the song. Jefferson sticks out an expensive heeled shoe, and I almost trip, but catch myself just in time. Glaring at him, I sing Madison's intro.

"Meanwhile: Madison is grappling with the fact that not every issue can be settled by committee! Meanwhile: Congress is fighting over where to put the capitol---" I pause for a breath where the pulse of the words allow, and the crowd screams locations at the top of their lungs, accurately describing the chaos Congress was thrown into during that debate.

Laughing, I shout, "It isn't pretty!"

"Then Jefferson approaches with a dinner and invite, and Madison responds with Virginian insight," I manage to say, before they push me out of the way.

Madison, a fan favourite, starts us off. "Maybe we can solve on problem with another and win a victory for the southerners, in other words--"

"Oh-ho!" exclaims Jefferson, who is actually so dorky it's not even funny. At his remark, the crowd dissolves into laughter, and Madison actually throws his handkerchief at him, which he dodges fearfully, because who knows what type of diseases are on that thing.

Madison finishes his sentence, using intellectual phrases, like everyone knew he would. "A quid pro quo," he says, looking immensely proud, and as much as I hate him, I can't help but chuckle at the expression.

I do a double-take. Jefferson is looking thoughtful! ABORT MISSION ABORT MISSION! JEFFERSON HAS BEEN REPLACED WITH A LOOK-ALIKE! ABORT! ABORT!

"I suppose," he says, thinking about what he's going to say before he says the words. ABORT MISSION! ABORT!

Madison leans forward, saying smugly, "Wouldn't you like to work a little closer to home?"

"Actually, I would." No surprise there. *Cough* lazy *cough*.

"Well, I propose the Potomac."

"And you'll provide her her votes?" Jefferson asks, and I find it astounding how much power the shorter man has over people. Okay, so there's a people person, and there's James Madison, the hypochondriac who's always sick. Don't ask me how he does it; I don't know.

Madison hesitates, before answering noncommittally, "Well, we'll see how it goes."

His partner says, "Let's go!"

"No!" I yell, hopping back onto center stage, and the people go nuts, finishing the verse for me.

"--One else was in the room where it happened, the room where it happened, the room where it happened! No one else was in the room where it happened, the room where it happened, the room where it happened!"

"My God, in God we trust," I yell, letting out all the pent-up frustration and anger flow freely, silencing everyone where they stand, "but we'll never really know what got discussed! Click-boom, then it happened!"

"But no one else was in the room where it happened."

The field is silent for a moment before it erupts into applause. I don't stay to celebrate, though. I have someone I need to talk to. Alexandra Hamilton.

Time skip

"What did they say to you to get you to sell New York City down the river?" I yell at the back of her swivel chair, another dumb invention of Jefferson's. I'm hurt, angry, confused, and I need answers.

I get no response, so I press harder, shout louder, with more intensity, "Did Washington know about the dinner, was there Presidential pressure to deliver?"

Still nothing. Taking in a deep breath to prepare for another rant, something strikes me. Something sly, underhand and dirty. Something just so Hamilton.

"Or did you know, even now it doesn't matter where you put the US Capitol?"

Alexandra finally swings around in her chair, a smug look on her face. "Because we'll have the banks. We're in the same spot."

I can't believe this! How can she be so indifferent about this? "You got more than you gave..." I gasp out, still numb from shock. How can this be the same tired woman I met in 1776 late one night who begged me for advice?

"And I wanted what I got," she said, leaning forward threateningly. "When you've got skin in the game, you stay in the game, but you don't get a win unless you play in the game. Oh, you get love for it, you get hate for it, you get nothing if you wait for it, wait for it."

My heart sinks lower and lower, and I feel myself shrinking under her judgement.

"God help and forgive me!" Alexandra shouts, now towering over me. "I want to build something that's going to outlive me! What do you want, Burr? What do you want, Burr? If you stand for nothing, Burr, what'll you fall for?"

And I'm shrinking, falling, drowning in the sea of expectations, realizing my insignificance as I am swept under and under the waves, tossed and thrown in every which way. Suddenly I feel the world tilt against me, and I say what I really want inside.

I want to be in the room where it happens, the room where it happens. I want to be in the room where it happens, the room where it happens. 

I tear out of her office, sprinting down the halls, my mind fueling my feet. I want to be in the room where it happens! I want to be, no, I've got to be in the room, that big old room!

Reflecting back on what's being referred to the Dinner Table Bargain, or the Compromise of 1790, I feel rage boil in my blood. 

"The art of the compromise!" I shout, not caring that I'm in the middle of the street and am receiving strange looks from random people. "Hold your nose and close your eyes! We want our leaders to save the day, but we don't get a say in what they trade away!"

People are starting to, and I know I'm striking a chord in them, one they didn't know hey had. "We dream of a brand new start, but we dream in the dark for the most part! Dark as the tomb where it happens! I've got to be in the room..."

I run to the front doors, pulling desperately on he hands, put they're locked, and they don't budge. "I've got to be..."

Giving up, I move to another door, and get the same result. "I've got to be..."

"Oh, I've got to be in the room where it happens! I've got to be, I've gotta be, I've gotta be in the room!"

"Click-boom!"


	30. Schuyler Defeated

Elijah's POV

It's been such a long day. Hell, it's been a long year. Alexandra's never home, I'm trying to raise a whole house full of kids, five, to be exact. I've shipped most of them out to family and friends, and am currently trying to get some time to myself for once.

"Look!" shouts Philip, the only one who didn't leave. He practically vaults over the furniture in an attempt to reach me. "Grandpa's in the paper!" He shoves the newspaper right in my face, and I groan, shoving him off my lap.

Undeterred, he continues, quoting the paper directly, "War hero Philip Schuyler loses Senate seat to young upstart Aaron Burr." He looks up at me, looking more shaken up than I've ever seen him before.

Flopping down beside me on the seat, his expression mirrors mine. "Grandpa just lost his seat in the Senate," he whispers quietly, letting the news sink in after the initial shock. I guess none of us saw that coming.

I slap on a consoling look and attempt to cheer us both up, saying lightly, "Sometimes that's how it goes."

Philip keeps on talking, and says worriedly, "Mummy's gonna find out any minute!"

Yeah, like I don't know that. She'll act without thinking and get us all in trouble. I just can't wait. Instead of voicing these doubts, I keep up my calm facade. "I'm sure she already knows," I say, because she'd better. If Alexandra is blowing off her family for some reason other than work... well, it wouldn't look very promising.

I snuggle closer to my son and crane my neck around to see the article. "Further down," says Philip helpfully, handing me the paper and steering me away from the other pieces on mundane, everyday events.

Tracing my finger down the lines of print, I mutter, "Further down," scanning for the work. I can't seem to find it; then I spot it. 

"Let's meet the newest Senator for New York," says Philip bitterly, and I poke him gently on the arm. There's no need for a little boy like him to hold a grudge.

"New York!"

Folding the paper, I prepare to read. "Our senator..." I trail off, losing myself in the print. My son drifts away to go find something more interesting to do, and my face contorts in a sort of painful smile. It's a shame, really, I think as I delve into the piece. Aaron was a good man. He doesn't deserve to go out this way. Because my wife will take him out. That much I know.

Burr's POV

This is great. I just got elected Senator. Fight me, bitches!

Actually, no. I'd rather not. I just got these clothes cleaned.

"Burr?"

Oh shit.

"Since when are you a Democratic-Republican?" Alexandra accuses, smashing her copy of the paper directly into my face, her hands trembling with rage.

Chuckling, I push the unrecognizable wad of paper away from me and say smugly, "Since being on put me on the up and up again." 

She nearly ignites. "No one knows who you are or what you do!" She rages, advancing closer and closer to me, flexing her fingers threateningly, no doubt visualizing what my heart would look like being crushed in between her slender yet unusually strong hands.

"They don't need to know me," I start, then hesitate. Then I make eye contact with her, and she gives me the look that says, I dare you, and I impulsively go on ahead and continue, "they don't like you." Or your family. Or anyone who associates with you.

Her hands shoot out, grasping my neck. For a moment neither of us move, neither of us breathe, then she slowly removes them, almost like it pains her. They shake violently in protest, but she manages to restrain herself. She doesn't move them to her sides, however, just keeps them out in front of her, staring at them for a solid ten seconds before saying quietly, "Excuse me?"

"Oh, Wall Street thinks you're great," I assure her, while simultaneously wondering what happened to me, more specifically the part of me that knows when to shut up. I guess she took that from me too, when she decided to break the last straw. "You'll always be adored by the things you create. But upstate--"

"Wait--" she cuts me off, trying to get her bearings, but I don't stop. I've done enough waiting.

"--people think you're crooked. Schuyler's seat was up for grabs, so I took it." 

When she finally speaks, it's low and quiet, with an edge of sadness. "I've always considered you a friend," she whispers, employing her big, brown eyes to emphasize the betrayal.

Yeah, me too. But that didn't stop you.

I don't say that, though, no matter how much I want to. I grit my teeth and lie, smiling awkwardly, trying to salvage this train wreck of a conversation. "I don't see why that has to end."

Laughing derisively, she sneers, "You changed parties to run against my father-in-law!"

"I changed parties to seize the opportunity I saw!" I counter, then shake my head in disbelief. "I swear your pride will be the death of us all! Beware, it goeth before the fall!"

And, turning neatly on my heel, I walk away from her, emotion welling in my chest as my heels click smartly on the cobblestones. Let her stew on that.


	31. Cabinet Battle #2

Jefferson's POV

Okay, so I know that last time was bad, but I swear this time I'll wipe the floor with her. Hopefully.

"The issue on the table: France is on the verge of war with England. And do we provide aid and our troops to our French allies, or do we stay out of it? Remember, my decision on this matter is not subject to Congressional approval," the President says, and the floor goes out from under me. What did he say? I didn't get the memo! Did James get the memo? Goddammit, why is my life such a mess? "The only person you have to convince is me." Nevermind. I can't win this. "Secretary Jefferson, you have the floor, sir."

I stand up, take a bow, and pray to every deity I can name. All I need to do is stick to what I practiced and it will all turn out okay. Here we go.

"When we were on death's door when we were needy," I begin, my voice strong despite my doubts, "we made a promise, we signed a treaty! We needed money and guns and half a chance! Who provided those funds?" I ask, letting the question hang guiltily in the air.

It's quiet for far too long. I look over at James, who is fiddling distractedly with his handkerchief. Sending a vicious elbow to his ribs, I start him into saying his line. "Um, France!" he says quickly and nervously, and I have to feel bad for the guy, and sorry that I was so violent with my limbs. He's trying his best, all because you asked him to, I remind myself, then continue.

"In return, they didn't ask for land. Only a promise that we'd lend a hand and stand with them if they fought against oppressors, and revolution is messy, but now is the time to stand!" I shout, earning wild shouts from the crowd, and their cheers give me spirit.

"Stand with our brothers as they fight against tyranny! I know that Alexandra Hamilton is here, and she would rather not have this debate," I say, lowering my voice and fake whispering to the people, who go absolutely nuts over it. "I'll remind you that she is NOT Secretary of State!" I shout, bring my cane down forcefully on the floor, sending a resounding "Boom!" throughout the room. Everyone goes quiet in anticipation.

Time for the cheap shots. Hey, she fought dirty last time, so I'll do the same. "She knows nothing of loyalty! Smells like new money, dresses like fake royalty! Desperate to rise above her station! Everything she does betrays the ideals of our nation!" I shout, and the building reaches a climax. Right before everything boils over, I calm it by saying confidently, "Hey, and if you don't know, know you know, Mr. President."

President Washington aims a confused look at me, like he's impressed yet disappointed. Shrugging, I take my seat. I've done my best. He says tiredly, "Thank you, Secretary Jefferson. Secretary Hamilton, your response."

It's silent for an age, which is strange for Hamilton, who never shuts up. The crowd is yelling at her, some encouraging and some disparaging, all wanting her to go ahead and say her piece.

"You must be out of your GODDAMN mind," she screams at last, blowing out everyone's eardrums at once, "if you think the President is going to bring the nation to the brink of meddling in the middle of a military mess, a game of chess where France is Queen and King-less!"

Turning to me, she doesn't alter her volume one notch, and I find myself squirming in my seat, using every ounce of self-respect I have not to show weakness, which is proving difficult, as her voice is slowly converting my mind to mush.

"We signed a treaty with a King whose head is now in a basket! Would you like to take it out as ask it, 'Should we honour our treaty, King Louis' head?'" She looks at me with soft brown eyes that quickly morph into daggers when she finishes her childish insult with, "'Uh, do whatever you want, I'M SUPER DEAD!'"

Once again I find myself on my feet, ready to tear her apart with my bear hands, but once again Washington has me held firmly. "Enough!" he yells directly in my ear, and I cower away from the small thunderclap. "Hamilton is right!"

No, no she is not. She has never been more wrong! Twisting out of his grip, I say, aghast, "Mr. President!"

"We're too fragile to start another fight!"

Grinding my teeth, I search for another angle. "But, sir," I protest, "do we not fight for freedom?"

The President shrugs good-naturedly, and I wonder how much trouble I'd be in if I ripped his head clean off his shoulders, making light of this serious affair. He says, "Sure, when the French figure out who's gonna lead them!"

Are we seeing the same thing? Are we looking at the same picture. "The people are leading--"

"The people are rioting!" Washington has lost all patience, and has resorted to raising his voice, and I know that this discussion is over. "There's a difference. Frankly, it's a little disquieting you would let your ideals blind you to reality!" Ouch. "Hamilton!"

"Sir!" she responds, confident and cocky, and it's the worst sound I've ever heard.

He gives her an instruction, then leaves, instigation the outflow of the spectators. I get consoling pats on the back and reassuring comments, but Washington's words still ring in my ears. "Draft a statement of neutrality."

Soon we are the only two left. She makes a move to leave, but I block her path with a sudden determination. "Did you forget Lafayette?" I demand, my thoughts filled with my French brother fighting far away, struggling and striving just to survive. I remember that he would always say, "It doesn't matter what happens; I was given a promise, and Alexandra will never forsake me." Well, Judas promised too.

She stops, crossing her arms in defiance, asking dangerously, "What?"

"Have you an ounce of regret?" Silence. Ah-ha. She knows she's a back-stabbing traitor. Interesting. "You accumulate debt, you accumulate power, yet in their hour of need, you forget."

Fire flashes in Hamilton's eyes, and shame. She reasons it away airily, waving a hand to accentuate how little it really matters in the "big picture" or whatever. Bullshit. "Lafayette's a smart man, he'll be fine. And before he was your friend, he was mine." And you left him for dead. A+ friendship, right there. "If we try to fight in every revolution in the world, we never stop. Where do we draw the line?"

"So quick-witted," I laugh, shaking my head at the stubbornness.

"Alas, I admit it."

I scoff at the arrogance, then say with poison in my voice, "I bet you were quite a lawyer."

"My defendants got acquitted," she says with fake humility.

"Yeah." I pause for a moment, then lean in close and whisper, "Well, someone ought to remind you."

"What?" she asks, eyes curious but still wary.

I hesitate a moment longer, then say devilishly, "You're nothing without Washington behind you."

Every muscle in her body stiffens, and I watch in amusement as she fights against herself. She opens her mouth to scream, but from far off, we hear the man himself call her name. I smile even wider, praising all the deities for this miracle they've granted me.

"Daddy's calling," I whisper, making shooing motions with my hands, and watch in delight as she grinds her teeth, then spins slowly on her heel and speedwalks out of the room, tense as a spring.

Oh, I might not have won, but that was beautiful.


	32. Washington On Your Side

Burr's POV

After that train wreck of a cabinet meeting, I linger in the shadows, just watching. I see and hear everything that Jefferson and Alexandra say, all the blows they exchange. I wince and cheer (in my head, of course) and watch her get torn apart. 

Politics is great.

She storms out, and Jefferson is the only one remaining, staring blankly at the door she's just slammed shut, hands half-clenched at his sides. And in that moment, gazing on a man who's never used to take any shit but knows he can't win, it strikes me that, no matter what I do, I will never be seen as Alexandra's equal.

"It must be nice," I say quietly, walking up to Jefferson, placing a hand on his slumped shoulder, "to have Washington on your side." He looks at me, then back at the door, and I say again, softer this time, "It must be nice to have Washington on your side."

It's silent for a long minute, then Jefferson explodes, all raw emotion. Starting off relatively subdued, he spits, "Every action's got an equal, opposite reaction. Thanks to Hamilton, our cabinet's fractured into factions. Trying not to break under the stress, we're breaking down like fractions. We smack each other in the press, and we don't print retractions."

His voice steadily increases in volume, and he turns to me with fire and wetness in his eyes. Poor man. She's confused him, too, I think, sympathetic. I remember when I was like that. There wasn't a reason, in fact, it was against all logic, but that's what she does. She's a witch, a temptress.

"I get no satisfaction witnessing her fits of passion! The way she primps and preens, and dresses like the pits of fashion!" he screams at me, gesturing wildly and running shaking hands nervously through his hair, making it stand in all directions. It's starting to scare me, the way his eyes have widened and glazed. He's got crazy eyes. "Our poorest citizens, our farmers live ration to ration, while Wall Street robs them blind in search of chips to cash in!"

"This bitch is asking for someone to bring her to task! Somebody give me some dirt on this vacuous mass so we can at last unmask her! I'll pull the trigger on her," he shouts in exasperation, making me worry. Let's not be hasty, now, Thomas, "someone load the gun and cock it! While we were all watching, she got Washington in her pocket!"

He pauses, and I strike. I come up behind him and engulf him in the biggest, most unmanly hug I can possibly think of, holding him tightly and pressing my chin into his shoulder. It's astonishing how tense he is, and I notice that his entire frame is shaking, out of rage or possibly fear. For a moment he struggles halfheartedly against me, but I just hold him and refuse to let go, praying that no one walks in on this.

Gradually his breathing and tremors slow, and when I'm absolutely sure he's in a stable enough mental state, I sing softly, "It must be nice," and he joins in, a little hiccoughy, "it must be nice, to have Washington on your side. It must be nice, it must be nice, to have Washington on your side."

My ears catch a small sound far in the distance, and for a moment I hesitate, going quiet to try to hear what's causing it. Hearing no additional noises, I continue with Thomas -- he's Thomas now, how cool is that? -- saying, "Look back on the Bill of Rights," or, more specifically, the part where it says that the federal government can't overstep its bounds, which it is.

"WHICH I WROTE!" booms a loud voice, startling me and Thomas apart from the shock. When my focus returns, I see it's Madison, beet red and coughing worse than ever. He grabs Thomas by the arm, causing the other man to double over. Madison drags him a step away, out of earshot, and they have a rapid, albeit heated, discussion. There's lightning fast hand movement and furious hissing, and it's almost like another language. 

It appears that Thomas has calmed the beast, because in about five seconds both of them are back, Madison without the terrifying rage cloud surrounding him. "The ink hasn't dried," they chorus, and I'm momentarily confused. We're still on the Bill of Rights? We're not even acknowledging what just happened?

"It must be nice, it must be nice, to have Washington on your side." 

Apparently not.

Madison starts us off again, saying, "She's doubled the size of our government, wasn't the trouble with much of our previous government size?" Both of us nod in agreement.

"Look in her eyes!" I say, disgusted at myself that I once considered this woman a friend, someone I could trust. I didn't see the signs. 

God, she makes me sick.

God, I make myself sick.

Thomas snarls, "See how she lies!" and I'm back to feeling sorry for him. Falling for her is like getting trapped under a boulder: you never see it coming, you wish it never happened, but there's nothing you can do to get out.

"Follow the scent of her enterprise," advises Madison, whom I will now refer to as James, because I don't want him to feel left out. (See: Ten Duel Commandments.)

"Centralizing national credit and making American credit competitive," mocks Thomas, obviously still sore about the whole thing, despite the compromise that I never want to speak of again.

A look of sudden realization dawns on James' face, and he turns to Thomas, saying, the astonishment evident, "If we don't stop it, we aid and abet it!"

"I have to resign!" cries Thomas, grabbing at James in desperation. I find my heart pumping faster and faster, feeling the thrill seep into my bones. We're going to bring down Alexandra! I find myself thinking, swept up in Thomas' wild exuberance.

In a rare and inspiring show of emotion, James slaps his hand against the wall and says firmly, "Somebody has to stand up for the South!"

"Somebody needs to stand up to her mouth!" I retort, a smile breaking out across my face when the two of them respond with dark enthusiasm.

Thomas is winding himself up for another go at it, exclaiming loudly, "If there's a fire you're trying to douse --"

"-- you can't put it out from inside the house!" James joins in, and the two of them look at each other like they've just shared an inside joke, which they probably have.

Then Thomas leaps up onto the only table in the place, which is halfway across the room, so we have to run all the way over there to get a better look at him while he shouts this next part. "I'm in the cabinet; I am complicit in watching her grabbing at power and kiss it! If Washington isn't going to listen to disciplined dissidents, this is the difference: this kid is out!"

That man never breathed. I swear on a stack of Bibles, he never took a breath.

"Oh!" We chorus as he jumps down to join us on the floor like regular, civilized folk, and we continue, crescendoing to a climax, "This immigrant isn't somebody we chose! Oh! This immigrant's keeping us all on our toes! Oh! Let's show these Federalists what they're up against! Oh!"

Then James and Thomas do something I'd never thought possible. Losing all restraint, they scream at the top of their lungs, "SOUTHERN MOTHERFUCKING --"'

And since this is the single greatest thing I have ever witnessed in my entire life, I get in on this action. "-- DEMOCRATIC-REPUBLICANS!"

Finishing off strong, we yell together, "Let's follow the money and see where it goes! Because every second the Treasury grows! If we follow the money and see where it leads, look in the weeds, find the seeds of Hamilton's misdeeds!"

Then we all stop, looking at each other for a full minute. The excitement we'd worked so hard to accomplish dissipates, and when we finally break the silence, it's to sing my soft tune.

"It must be nice, it must be nice..."

"Follow the money and see where it goes," reminds James, God bless him.

"It must be nice, it must be nice..."

"The emperor has no clothes." WHAT THE FUCK, THOMAS?

"We won't be invisible," Oh. We're making puns. That's okay then. Proceed, "we won't be denied. Still," the mood turns wistful again, all of us thinking, What if...? "it must be nice, it must be nice, to have Washington on your side."


	33. One Last Time

Washington's POV

As I stare out the window at the luscious fields, I hear the scraping of the door as it slides across the hardwood floor, and the hesitant click of heels. They suddenly stop in a swish of skirts, and I immediately recognize who they belong to even before the visitor announces herself.

"Mr. President," I hear Alexandra's voice ask gently, though it's not a question, "you asked to see me?"

Sighing, I run my hand over my head, feeling a quill and various legal documents dig into my rear. I should get off my desk, but I just can't find it within myself to move. The grass outside sways in the wind as I say dejectedly, "I know you're busy."

Two more steps forward from the pair of heels. Then: "What do you need, sir?" She sounds worried. I wonder why. Maybe she's having family troubles. Then I laugh mentally. The bastard, orphan, immigrant having family issues? Never.

"Sir?" she asks again, another half step forward. I snap out of it.

Finally I turn to her, hauling myself off the desk to face her. In all seriousness, I say, "I want to give you a word of warning."

That gets a reaction. Since she's apparently not close enough to me already, she leans forward, waving her hands, widening her eyes, and defending with a classic, "I don't know what you heard, but whatever it is, Jefferson started it!"

Good God, I'm leaving this country in the hands of children. May he have mercy on us all.

I honestly doubt that, and I voice my skepticism. "Thomas Jefferson resigned this morning," I tell her, praying that she'll take this news like a mature adult.

"You're kidding!" she gasps, dropping her giant stack of papers, throwing a hand over her mouth in shock. Slowly she brings it down, exposing an honest-to-God shark's smile, rows of gleaming teeth bared and eyes shining with bloodlust.

Children. Mutant shark children running my country. This is what we've come to.

She then bends down to collect her writings, her hair flowing around her shoulders in a fluidity that can only be described as chaotic, chuckling quietly to herself, no doubt about her arch-nemesis.

I bring her back to reality with four syllables. "I need a favour."

Jumping to her feet, she salutes and practically screams, "Whatever you say, sir, Jefferson will pay for this behaviour!" It's all about Jefferson now. It's really starting to worry me, if I'm being frank. Obsession never was fulfillment.

She opens her mouth to continue ranting, but I hush her. "Shh. Talk less," I say softly, gently reminding her of days long gone, a simpler time for some, a crueler world for others. For me it was a little of both: constantly under pressure, run ragged by the burden of war, but always knowing my place, my purpose never unclear. I'm wiser now, but less sure.

"I'll use the press. I'll write under a pseudonym, you'll see what I can do to him!" exclaims Alexandra, missing the point as per usual. For such a bright young woman, she doesn't understand the simplest concepts, the most prominent on my list being self-preservation. What's with all this "dying a martyr" business? Can't she see that doesn't help anyone fix anything?

Sighing again, I say loudly and forcefully, "I need you to draft an address." Which means stop talking, you're making things worse.

She totally blows it out of proportion, her eyes agleam when she says triumphantly, "Yes! He resigned, you can finally speak your mind!"

Translation: She can finally speak her mind and destroy Jefferson once and for all. I just can't wait.

"No," I say, making steady eye contact with her and talking so very slowly, like a parent to an extremely intellectually challenged child. "He's stepping down so he can run for President."

Laughing derisively, she says, "Ha! Good luck defeating you, sir!"

And here we go. "I'm stepping down. I'm not running for President."

The world stops. Everything pauses. Then Alexandra coughs, chokes, hits herself in the chest to dislodge whatever she's swallowed - part of me wishes darkly it's her tongue - then rasps out a disbelieving, "Wait, what?"

"One last time," I say kindly, patting her on the shoulder. Her face is ashen, her eyes have dulled. "Relax, have a drink with me!" I pour her a small measure of alcohol, which she downs in lightning speed, hands trembling. That's not a good sign. "One last time, and if we get this right, we're going to teach them how to say goodbye, say goodbye. You and I..."

"No, sir, why?" she begs at last, breaking out of her coma to plead that I stay, that I prove my decision to her somehow. Too bad. That's not what matters right now.

Pressing on, I say, "I want to talk about neutrality."

"Sir, with Britain and France on the verge of war, is this the best time--"

"I want to warn against partisan fighting," I continue, drowning out her weak protests with my own, stronger words. What I'm getting at is this: don't bring your personal lives into politics! (Take notes, magenta southern gentlemen and female immigrant politicians who shall remain nameless.)

She sputters out, "But--"

"Pick up a pen, start writing!" I chastise her, prodding her teasingly in her side with the tip of my finger. It strikes me that this is the first time I've actually had to tell her she has to write. Usually Alexandra just does it out the goodness of her heart. "I want to talk about what I have learned, the hard-won wisdom I have earned!"

She jumps into the fray, still trying her very best to persuade me, or guilt me. "As far as the people are concerned, you have to serve!" I raise my eyebrows, and she shrinks a little, saying in a smaller voice, "You could continue to serve..."

"No! One last time, the people will hear from me. One last time, let's take a break tonight! And then we'll teach them how to say goodbye, say goodbye. You and I!"

"Mr. President," she's regrouped, and says now, less emotionally and more intellectually, "they will say you're weak."

Typical. She thinks that we are measured by what the world sees as bravery, instead of what really counts, like knowing when your turn is over, to let someone else take control. It's knowing that never letting go can just end up hurting everybody.

"No. They will see we're strong!" I say, trying my best to open her eyes to the way the world should really work, but I'm not sure she's getting the picture.

She tries again, grasping at straws, begging desperately right in my face, "Your position is so unique!"

I lean forward, grasping her slender wrists and saying gently, "So I'll use it to move them along!"

Then she breaks, something I've seen only once before. Leaning her head against my chest, Alexandra mumbles in the most childlike voice I've ever heard from a grown woman, "Why do you have to say goodbye?"

I almost lose it. The desperation in her voice, the quiet edge of fear, the hopeless abandonment filling the room with every passing second makes me want to give in, to snap and cry and do whatever it takes to bring back the Alexandra that I know and love: arrogance, confidence, determination, humour, intensity, ferociousness, courage, to name a few.

Gently I stroke her hair, the smooth silk flowing down her back in a cascade of dark water, whispering softly to her, hoping she'll understand why I'm doing this. "If I say goodbye, the nation learns to move on. It outlives me when I'm gone."

She doesn't say anything, only holds me tighter, and I continue, "Like the scripture says: 'Every man shall sit under his own vine and fig tree, and no one shall make them afraid.' They'll be safe in this nation we've made. I want to sit under my own vine and fig tree, a moment alone in the shade, at home in this nation we've made. One last time..." I trail off, and my hands stop their soothing patterns on her back.

"One last time," she echoes, pulling away from me at last. We make eye contact, and an understanding passes between us. Picking up a quill from off my desk, she raises it up to me, like a toast, before bowing her head and walking off to her office to draft my farewell address.

\--

Though, in reviewing the incidents of my administration I am unconscious of intentional error, I am nevertheless too sensible of my defects that I may have committed many errors. I shall also carry with me the hope that my country will view them with indulgence; and that after forty-five years of my life dedicated to it service with an upright zeal, the faults of incompetent abilities will be consigned to oblivion, as I myself must soon be to the mansions of rest.

I anticipate with pleasing anticipation that retreat in which I promise myself to realize the sweet enjoyment of partaking in the midst of my fellow citizens, the benign influence of good laws under a free government as I trust in our mutual cares, labours, and dangers. 

"One last time."

\--

"George Washington's going home," I hear the people whisper in the streets, awe and fear filling their voices. Life as they know it is changing yet again. It's for the better.

Alexandra came by last week, after we'd finished the address. She'd grasped my hand in a firm handshake, whispered, "Teach them how to say goodbye," then enveloped me in the tightest hug I'd ever gotten. 

I remember how I'd said in response, "You and I! I'm going home!" I then gave her the same warning I'd given to her during the war. "History has its eyes on you!" Not me. History is done with me, finally.

Walking down the streets, I am finally at peace. I know in my heart I've made the right decision. Whether or not the nation will recognize that is yet to be seen, but I know it's the only right thing to do.

Teach them how to say goodbye! 

Teach them how to say goodbye! 

Say goodbye! 

One last time!


	34. I Know Him

King George III's POV

They say George Washington's yielding his power and stepping away. Is that true? Well, he's a better man than I gave him credit for, I suppose. A bit foolish, but nonetheless better. I wasn't aware that was something a person could do. A bit of artistic license. Of course I knew it was something that could be done! I'm a King! What did you expect? 

I'm perplexed. Are they going to keep on replacing whoever's in charge? If so, who's next? There's nobody else in their "country" who looms quite as large. Literally. The man's a giant.

One of my sentinels approaches and whispers in my ear. I almost fall off my throne. "John Adams?" I question her, wondering if my perfect royal ears have somehow malfunctioned. But no, she nods respectfully in agreement before I shoo her away, my mind still reeling. 

I know him. That can't be. He's that little guy who spoke to me all those years ago. What was it, I think, trying hard to remember, '85? He was an ambassador, I remember now. Dreadfully nervous, he was. That poor man, they're going to eat him alive! I realize, a smile beginning to creep across my perfect, smooth face. Good lord, that man is doomed!

Oceans rise, empires fall. Beside Washington they all look small. Hahahaha. Puns. All alone, watch them run! They will tear each other into pieces! Jesus Christ, this will be fun! I get to watch them destroy themselves. I can hardly wait!

Da da da dat da, da dat, da da da da ya da  
Da da da dat dat da ya daaaaaaa!

I laugh so hard just thinking about it that I feel tears come to my eyes as I double over. "President John Adams," I manage to gasp out, wheezing at the mere thought of it. "Good luck!"


	35. The Adams Administration

Burr's POV

This may come as a shock, but Alexandra screwed up. Again.

Here, I'll explain. How does Hamilton, the short-tempered, protean creator of the Coast Guard, founder of the New York Post, ardently abuse her cabinet post, destroy her reputation? Welcome, folks, to the Adams administration! 

Jefferson's the runner up, which makes him the Vice President. And, as he put it, "Washington can't help you know, no more Mr. Nice President." That got a rise out of Alexandra. Jefferson still has a black eye.

If that wasn't hard enough for her, Adams fires Hamilton, privately calls her "creole bastard" and other things which shall be left unsaid, in his taunts. Hamilton publishes her response.

She wrote, An open letter to the fat, arrogant, anti-charismatic, national embarrassment known as President John Adams. "Shit," I say, and Jefferson and Madison who I am reading this nod in agreement. We don't say anything after that, just continue to read with growing expressions of horror.

The man's irrational, he claims that I'm in league with Britain in some vast international intrigue! Bitch, please! You wouldn't know what I'm doing! You're always going berserk, but you never show up to work! Give my regards to Abigail next time you talk about my lack of moral compass. At least I do my job up in this rumpus!

The three of us take a sharp intake of breath at exactly the same time, the exhale in a soft "Oh." This is both the greatest and worst letter we have ever read, tearing into every flaw in the President's armour and destroying the man inside.

The line is behind me, I crossed it again. Well, the President lost it again! Aww, such a rough life, better run to your wife! Yo, the boss is in Boston again. Let me ask you a question: who sits at your desk when you're in Massachusetts? They were calling you a dick back in '76 and you haven't done anything new since! You're a nuisance with no sense, you'll die of irrelevance! Go ahead: you can call me the devil, you aspire to my level, you aspire to malevolence! Say hi to the Jeffersons! And the spies all around me! Maybe they can confirm I don't care if I kill my career with this letter, I'm confining you to one term!

You fat mother-- Jefferson quickly flips over the page, stopping the words from oozing out at us. We've seen enough. All of us are breathing hard, imagining the possibilities if Hamilton ever decided to tell the country what she thought of one of us. It's not a pretty picture.

I break the silence, saying quietly, "Hamilton's out of control." 

"This is great," says Madison eventually, and I do a double-take. I'm sorry, are we looking at the same thing here? Did you not see the most powerful man in the United States of America get his ass handed to him by a short, feisty, female immigrant? "She's out of power, she holds no office, and she just destroyed President John Adams, the only other significant member of her party."

Well, when you put it like that, things do look better for us. But Jefferson's shaking his head, not buying it for a minute.

"Hamilton's a host unto herself," he declares, rubbing his eyes. It strikes me that he's truly exhausted. She's playing games with all of us, I note. Madison's jumpy, more violent, I'm constantly on alert, and Jefferson's drained, emotionally and physically. "If she can hold a pen, she's a threat."

The next words he says rock my world. "Let's let her know what we know."


	36. We Know

Burr's POV

"Mr. Vice President," spits out Alexandra, as the three of us file in. Jefferson tips his head mockingly, and she copies his cocky smile in an attempt to gain control. "Mr. Madison," she says, with slightly less hostility, and Madison doesn't acknowledge her; he's passive-aggressive that way. When her eyes land on me, she sneers, "Senator Burr. What is this?"

"We have the check stubs. From separate accounts," drawls Jefferson, lazily waving a small bundle of papers in the air around her head. When she makes a grab for them, he pulls his hand away, a shark smile on his face.

Madison approaches, continuing the line, saying, "Almost a thousand dollars, paid in different amounts."

"To a Mr. James Reynolds," I say, and her eyes widen just a smidge, not enough for the others to notice, but just enough for me to catch, "way back in 1791." We've got her now.

"Is that what you have, are you done?" barks Alexandra, blustering and bolstering and trying to get herself out of the spotlight and in control. She's attempting to throw us off, disrupt us, make us slip up and forget our purpose. Well, not today. We just keep plugging away, breaking down every wall she's put up, tearing apart every lie she's told. Today's the day we bring her down.

Madison hops in, talking smoothly and confidently despite Alexandra's interruption. "You are uniquely situated, by virtue of your position--"

"--though virtue is not a word I'd apply to this situation," clips Jefferson, cutting into Madison's speech. He is then rewarded with a Don't interrupt me when I'm speaking, Thomas, look from Madison, who then continues, unflustered.

"--to seek financial gain, to stray from your sacred mission--" he says analytically, each intellectual word landing a heavy blow to her ego.

Jefferson, who clearly hasn't learned that one does not simply interrupt James Madison Jr., decides to stick his nose into this statement too, stealing all of Madison's thunder. "--and the evidence suggests you've engaged in speculation!"

"An immigrant embezzling our government funds," I sing smugly, safe in the knowledge that we've beaten her at her own game. We searched and we searched and we searched until we finally uncovered this, and I must say, it was well work it.

The two Virginians swoop in like vultures to hit her while she's down. "I can almost see the headline," they boast, waving their hands in the air to illustrate their point, "your career is done."

"I hope you saved some money for your daughter and sons," I say, not really sure why, because they're her children, not mine, so why do I care? And, I mean, they're father is Elijah Schuyler, so I'm sure they'll be fine, which is a relief. It would be horrible to be punished for the sins of your mother. I guess I'm just having another poke at her, suggesting that she needs to save the money, since she doesn't have mush to begin with???

Whatever. Moving on.

All of us move in closer, and she shrinks before us. I get a flashback to SOUTHERN MOTHER FUCKING DEMOCRATIC-REPUBLICANS! and it gives me strength. Then we say collectively, with as much insolence and arrogance as we can muster and mocking Caribbean speech, "You best g'wan run back where ya come from!"

"Ha!" she rages, suddenly renewed, no longer cowering beneath us. And when I say "us", I mean me and Jefferson, because Madison is part dwarf. He couldn't loom over a child. "You don't even know what you're asking me to confess!"

That's a mistake. Now we're going to press even harder for an answer. "Confess?" we ask slyly, waiting for the opportunity to pounce.

"You have nothing!" she spits, yelling directly in my face to emphasize her point, "I don't have to tell you anything at all! Unless..." she whispers, backing away, a new idea forming inside her mind. The three of us lean in, intrigued.

We echo softy, "Unless?"

She knows the only way to get rid of us is to tell us the truth. "If I can prove that I never broke the law, do you promise not to tell another soul what you saw?" asks Alexandra harshly.

I don't know what I was expecting, but it's not this. Suddenly, something strikes me. "No one else was in the room where it happened," I think, my thoughts echoing clearly within my skull.

"Is that a yes?"

Shit, I said it out loud. Now Madison and Jefferson are looking at me like I'm wearing human skin as a cape. Good lord.

"Um, yes," we three say together in varying degrees of confusion and awkwardness, and I don't make eye contact with any of them. I doubt I'll ever live this down. Anytime I think, Hey, I actually did a pretty good job, I'll just look back on this moment and think, LOL, nope!

As I study the various cracks and scratches in her hardwood floor, I hear her travel to the opposite end of the room. I hear the rattling of a key, and the scrape of wood against wood, which I can only assume is Alexandra opening a drawer. There's a rustling of papers, then the drawer is slammed shut, the key turned in the lock again. Her footsteps approach again, stopping in front of me. Slowly I bring my eyes up to meet hers, and see she's offering me a letter. I take it, unfold it carefully, and begin to read.

"Dear Ma'am, I hope this letter finds you in good health and in a prosperous enough position to put wealth into the pockets of people like me, down on their luck. You see," I read, horrified at what I'm seeing, "that was my wife," Jefferson perks up, "you decided to--"

I drop the letter, and Jefferson dives halfway across the room to catch it before it hits the ground and crumples. I watch as he speed-reads the rest of it, exclaiming, "Whaaaat?"

I feel sick.

"She courted me," Alexandra's saying, but her voice sounds distorted, warped. I can't look at her anymore, "escorted me to bed, and when she had me in a corner that's when Reynolds extorted me! For a sordid fee, I paid him quarterly. I may have mortally wounded my prospects, but my papers are orderly!"

Her shape approaches Madison, comparing her receipts with his in an effort to explain herself. I don't know why; none of us doubt her story. We just wish we'd never hear it. We just wish she was an embezzler. "As you can see, I kept a check of every check in my checkered history. Check it again against your list and see consistency," she tells Madison, who does so, and sees no fault, and nods to us to convey their authenticity. 

"I never spent a cent that wasn't mine! You sent the dogs after my scent, that's fine!" she shouts, leaving me to believe that no, it's not fine. "Yes, I have reasons for shame! But I have not committed treason and sullied my good name!" Now, hold up. Are you sure, Alexandra? Are you really, really sure? What about your husband? I'll bet he thinks this is treason. I'll bet your children will see this as treason. Hell, everyone here thinks it's treason, and you didn't even make a promise to us!

And for a woman? Have you no shame? Do you have any idea what this could do to you, to your family? I wouldn't care, except you have a responsibility to your family! You made a commitment! A promise! Does that mean nothing to you?

And as for your "good name". Please. We all know you lost that long, long ago. 

"As you can see, I have done nothing to provoke legal action!" Um, everything you just said was illegal. "Are my answers to your satisfaction?" she screams, and all of us just stand there in shock.

Not surprisingly, Jefferson breaks the silence. He puts his head in his hands, then wipes them across his face, before whispering, "My God." 

That simple statement alone has significant implications. Thomas Jefferson himself has nothing to say? That's a first, and it shows just how momentous and earth-shattering this revelation is.

"Gentlemen, let's go," says Madison, passive-aggressive as always. I can't help but be impressed. Even through everything he just heard, Madison isn't going to let anything change. He's just that type of guy.

As we walk towards the door, my hand on the knob, we hear, "So?"

Jefferson and Madison turn to face her, their expressions unreadable. "The people won't know what we know," they promise, then leave, keeping the door open, letting the cool night air waft in, erasing all doubts and worries from my person.

"Burr!" Alexandra asks, a little louder than she'd intended. "How do I know you won't use this against me the next time we go toe-to-toe?"

Smirking, I think, you don't. Instead, I spin slowly around, clearing my face of all emotion. "Alexandra," I say gently, "rumours only grow. And we both know what we know," I finish, patting her on the shoulder before strolling confidently out into the night.

As I leave her office behind, I can still feel the lamp-light on my back, warming my heart. For the first time, she's admitted she's wrong. For the first time, I've got one up on her. For the first time, it's great to be Aaron Burr.

And it's a wonderful feeling. I take another breath, letting the cool fill my lungs and travel throughout my body. Things are about to change. I can feel it.


	37. Hurricane

Alexandra's POV

I watch Burr walk away into the night until he's out of sight, then slide down the wall onto the floor. Watching the stars go by through the open door, my delirious thoughts wander to John. Where is he now? What is he doing? Is he watching me right now, disappointed in my inadequacies? I know I am.

Tears roll down my cheeks, and I realize that I'm drunken on sorrow. It all fell apart so fast, which reminds me of another disaster, a "Scottish tragedy." 

In the eye of a hurricane, there is quiet. For just a moment, a yellow sky.

When I was seventeen, a hurricane destroyed my town, I didn't drown. I couldn't seem to die.

The water tears around me, snatching, grabbing, sending ice coursing through my veins. My hands scrabble for handholds on rotted wooden planks, getting torn and bloody. Waves pound on my head, forcing me under, cleansing every part of my being, erasing every part of who I am. Nothing can stop it, nothing can escape it, the swirling vortex that darkens with hundreds of trails of blood.

My eyes snap open, and I find myself safe, chilly but dry in my office, breathing raggedly. Forcing myself to my feet, I swing the door closed, then stagger drunkenly to my desk, where I collapse into a weeping mess, gasping for breath as the flashbacks crash into me, one my one, dousing me in the cold, icy water of reality.

I wrote my way out. Wrote everything down far as I could see. I wrote my way out. I looked up and the town had its eyes on me. They passed a plate around. Total strangers, moved to kindness by my story. Raised enough for me to book passage on a ship that was New York bound.

Lifting my head up, I find within me a cold steel core, one I had forgotten about. Used only in times of great need, this resource is one I can always depend on, one that will always keep me safe. I can do this, I say to myself. Look at everything I've done already. And just you wait.

I wrote my way out of hell. I wrote my way to revolution, I was louder than the crack in the bell. I wrote Elijah love letters until he fell. I wrote about the Constitution and defended it well! And in the face of ignorance and resistance, I wrote financial systems into existence! And when my prayers to God were met with indifference, I picked up a pen, I wrote my own deliverance!

In the eye of a hurricane, there is quiet. For just a moment, a yellow sky.

I will find the eye of the hurricane. It won't be easy, but I will escape this storm. 

I was twelve when my mother died, she was holding me. We were sick and she was holding me. I couldn't seem to die.

As I sit at my desk, staring at my writing supply, Burr's voice pops into my head, singing, "Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it." I shake it off, expelling him from my thoughts. I don't need his jealousy or his aggression right now. An idea forms. I have a storm to stop.

I'll write my way out.

"Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it." Burr's still here. That man never could take a hint.

Write everything down far as I can see.

Another chorus of voices springs unbidden to my memory. Washington, Elijah, Angelica, and Maria sing his signature line. "History has its eyes on you..."

"Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it..."

I'll write my way out. Overwhelm them with honesty.

The beat in my head gets faster, wilder, and my thoughts mirror it, becoming more panicked and harried. Hastily I snatch some papers and grab my inkwell. This is the only way I can protect my legacy! 

"Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it..." sings the chorus, now composed of everyone my brain can conjure up, begging me to stop, to wait, to think, but I'm so far past all that. I need to escape the storm, I need to build my legacy!

A quill, a quill, a quill... where the fuck are all my quills? I need to write, and I need a quill to write! I'm panicking even worse now, tearing apart my workspace to search furiously for a quill, a pen, a stick with sap on the end, anything!

In exasperation, I push over my entire desk, sending various papers, inkwells, and other miscellaneous items tumbling to the floor, shattering in all directions. My shaking hands finally land on a quill, and I hastily load it with spilled ink from the floor.

I pause, the quill hovering inches from the paper, letting the words flow into my mind. As I am thus planning my sentences, I feel a soft hand on my shoulder, and I jump, splattering ink all over the page.

I'm looking into the alluring eyes of Maria Reynolds, who gives me a soft smile. Shocked, I say nothing, which only makes her smile more. She leans in, her soft breath caressing my cheek, my neck, and making me melt under her gaze. Planting her soft lips on mine, she breaks away after a moment, tucking my hair behind my ear and wiping most of the ink off my face before it can stain. She leans in again, and licks a spot off my nose before dissolving in a cloud of papers that float gently down to the floor around me.

In stunned silence, I don't move for a full minute afterwards. Then I snap out of it, acquire a replacement sheet of parchment, and write the first few words, the title.

The Reynolds Pamphlet.


	38. The Reynolds Pamphlet

Jefferson's POV

It's been, what, a few hours since Hamilton published her own death sentence, and the apocalypse is coming along quite nicely, if I do say so myself. People screaming, burning papers, throwing rotten fruit, the usual. This whole situation is rather amusing, once you get past the whole unexpectedness if it all. And the best part: she had my silence! She had my silence -- my free silence, I might add -- and then she went out and told everybody anyway. Classic.

"The Reynolds Pamphlet," I hear people whisper, shout, and/or gossip to each other, and I rub my hands together in anticipation. I haven't read the document myself yet, but it's bound to be good, what with all the reviews.

I approach Burr and Madison, and ask, "Have you read this?" at the same time as Madison. We share a moment of silent appreciation of our synchronization, then get back to the far more important matter we're discussing. The two others nod, which means I don't have to read all 95 pages; Madison can just summarize for me. Then an idea strikes me, and I call them in for a good-old-fashioned huddle.

"Alexandra Hamilton," the three of us shout after our brief but concise discussion, calling to people on the street, spreading the word as rapidly and as widely as possible, "had a torrid affair, and she wrote it down right there!" People gasp at the scandal, taking copies and copies of the infamous Reynolds Pamphlet. I get the feeling that today's going to be a good day.

Madison, who's struggling not to be trampled by the crowd like the small little hobbit that he is, finally gives up and does some crazy parkour, landing safely on a bench, now slightly visible above the sea of heads. His powerful voice cries out, ecstatic, "Highlights!"

That's my man. Who wants to read 95 pages of Hamilton's bullshit anyway?

Then the mob turns to me, and trains hundreds of eyes directly on my face. It's unnerving. And in that moment, I realize that, as the leader of the SOUTHERN MOTHERFUCKING DEMOCRATIC-REPUBLICANS, I am expected to, well, lead this public celebration of Hamilton's biggest fuckup. Great.

Thankfully, Burr shoves a Pamphlet in my hand and whispers, "Just read the stuff that's readable." I assume that means to skip the first couple paragraphs, because I don't even know what language they're written in. I mean, who speaks like that, let alone writes?

"'The charge against me is a connection with one Maria Reynolds. For purposes of improper speculation. My real crime is an amorous connection with her husband for a considerable time, with her knowing consent,'" I read, growing increasingly appalled at the bluntness of the whole thing. And something's bothering me, but I can't quite place it...

Wait! The husband? No. It was the wife. Wasn't she fucking the wife?

Oh. That clever bitch.

"Damn!" I swear, hearing my comment being echoed by others, though not for the same reasons. I'm grappling with the fact that I still can't get a win over this arrogant bastard child, even when she's shot herself in the foot with career-destroying evidence! 

And, hell, the lesbian bits were the best part.

I shake it off, and go back to reading, hearing Madison and Burr speaking with me, their voices faint from moving farther away to move within earshot of more citizens. "'I had frequent meetings with him, most of them at my own house.'"

"At her own house!" repeats Burr, giddy on his own excitement. It's like the man's drunk.

I cast my eyes around, and see, to my horror, Madison speaking to little Phillip Hamilton. Part of me wants to move to stop him, but the rest of me is more concerned with watching that immigrant go up in flames. Besides, the kid's going to find out sometime, and there's no time like the present, so I let Madison explain gently, hearing only snippets of their conversation. "... at her own house..."

"DAMN!" shouts a random, incredible deep voice. Whipping my head up, I search and I search, but I can't for the life of me find the curser, which is a shame, because I wanted to shake his hand.

I shake myself out of it to resume this dramatic retelling of yet another ruined career. I'm really happy. Can you tell I'm really happy? Anyway, the three of us keep the ball rolling, reading, "'Mr. Schuyler with our children being absent on a visit to his father.'"

Then I hear a sound, like a soft wind, and I try to focus in on it. Finally it comes to me. Burr, Madison, and half the crowd have whispered, "No..." unable to believe that a woman would take advantage of her husband, or his absence, in such a way. It's slightly irritating. Well, duh! She cheated. Kinda the whole point of the Pamphlet, don'tcha think?

"Boo!" roar the people, giving me the answer I wasn't looking for, but okay.

I watch in amazement as the mass of angry New Yorkers begin to flow swiftly down the streets, gathering speed and followers with each step. "Have you read this?" I hear my two comrades yell, doing their part in the effort, recruiting fighters left, right and center, and I start to smile. There is nothing that could make this day any more magical.

Something strikes me as we're making our way downtown, caught in the torrent of the mob, something that I just have to share with the rest of the world. Caught in a rush of adrenaline, I yell triumphantly, "Well, she's never gon' be President now!" 

"Never gon' be President now!" I hear faintly, and I smile even wider. This simple statement makes me so happy that I think I'm gonna keep saying it.

"Well, she's never gon' be President now!"

Then my favourite person in the world, along with Burr, "Never gon' be President now!"

"She's never gon' be President now! 

"Never gon' be President now!"

Another realization: "That's one less thing to worry about!" 

"That's one less thing to worry about!" they chime in, picking up on my excitement. I'm unusually happy, like, right now, I'm as happy as Burr is. That can't be normal. And I'm laughing, like, really laughing. Jesus, what's wrong with me?

Seeing as we're at the Hamilton residence, the whole lot of us take a few minutes, just remembering how to breathe. Not all of us are as fit as we should be, I mean, I've been working at a desk for forever, how am I supposed to stay in shape? I'm too busy with my very important, very grown-up, not at all petty political stuff.

Suddenly, something unexpected happens. Angelica comes tearing through the crowd with her bags, poking and shoving people in her struggle to get to the door. When she finally gets to the door, she doesn't bother knocking, just KICKS IN THE DOOR, and shouts, "I came as soon as I heard!"

"What?" I ask, thoroughly confused, making my way to the door so I can discreetly listen in on their conversation.. 

From inside the house, I hear Hamilton, who's tentative for once in her life. "Angelica..."

All the way from London? Damn! Hamilton, you fucked up, like, massively. But how did Angelica get here in time, anyway? That woman must be psychic, because that paper just came out literally hours ago.

"Angelica, thank God!" exclaims Hamilton, and I can visualize her falling to her (ex-)sister-in-law's feet, clutching Angelica's bright pink skirts. "Someone who understands what I'm struggling here to do!"

Then Angelica tears the fabric out of that traitorous, lying bitch's hands, then leans down and whispers so softly that I can barely make out the words, "I'm not here for you."

So maybe everyone is listening in at every door, every window, every crack in the Hamilton house, and maybe, just maybe, we all let out a collective, "Oooooh!" Maybe. Just maybe. But damn, Angelica!

Then she starts shouting, and all of the eavesdroppers who may or may not exist back away from the house in fear. "I know my brother like I know my own mind! You will never find anyone as trusting or as kind! I love my brother more than anything in this life! I will put his happiness over mine anytime! Put what we had aside," she screams, and it hits me. Oh. That must suck. In love with cheating, lying, selfish Alexandra Hamilton, "I'm standing at his side. You could never be satisfied! God, I hope you're satisfied!"

A slam resonates through the city the magnitude of a thunderclap, sending shock waves rippling throughout this young country. "Well, she's never gon' be President now!" I sing again, louder this time, with Madison and Burr joining me for the festivities. 

I turn around when I hear a group of men echoing us. "Never gon' be President now!'

"Well, she's never gon' be President now!" 

"She's never gon' be President now!" sing the voting men, and I could kiss them. I've never been so happy.

"Well, she's never gon' be President now!"

"Never gon' be President now!"

Then we sing my personal favourite line, "That's one less thing to worry about!"

"That's one less thing to worry about!"

Unbidden by me or any of the SOUTHERN MOTHERFUCKING DEMOCRATIC-REPUBLICANS, hordes of people swarm forward, smashing glass and windows, plastering copies of the Reynolds Pamphlet everywhere, throwing rocks and each other and just trashing the joint. Everyone's shouting something different, and it's hard to focus on just one thing. A smile sneaks onto my face as I join in on the destruction, regardless of Hamilton, who's just exited the building, trying to stop the vandals.

"Hey! At least I was honest with our money!" she shouts, dodging blows and a chicken that's someone's thrown at her head. No one's paying her any attention, though, just keeps shouting variants of, "Never gon' be President now!"

"That's one less thing to worry about, that's one less thing to worry about!" all of us chorus, uniting in a common cause. For a moment there is silence, and we all stand and watch what Hamilton's going to do now. To our surprise, she just turns and enters the house without a word.

Our crowd drifts off to go back to everyday activities, leaving the three of us outside the residence. An unspoken message passes between us, and we jog down another street, yelling, "The Reynolds Pamphlet! Have you read this? You ever seen somebody ruin their own life?"

Her poor husband, I have time to think while publicly tearing his wife's career apart. Betrayal like that isn't something a man can just shrug off, and my heart breaks for him. 

Still, it's a wonderful day to be a SOUTHERN MOTHERFUCKING DEMOCRATIC-REPUBLICAN.


	39. Congratulations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the demo version by Lin.

Angelica's POV

She rushes to me, slipping and sliding on the slick floor in her haste. When she finally reaches me, she collapses into my arms, her weary eyes dropping shut. "Angelica," she mumbles into my shoulder, sounding so lost and so happy just to be in my embrace that on any other day I would melt right then and there. But this isn't any other day, and I am livid.

Still, I can't help but hug her back for a moment, stealing a brief visit with the Alexandra that I love, feeling the familiar rush of that improper, shunned feeling that I feel around her. I respond in a kind, saying her name gently. "Alexandra... congratulations."

I push her away, letting out all the rage I'm feeling at this woman, who managed to destroy me, my brother, and our family in one stroke. She shrinks away, a hurt look on her face, but I'm not in the mood. How could she do this?

"You have invented a new kind of stupid," I yell, turning red and starting to shake, "a 'damage you can never undo' kind of stupid! An 'open all the cages in the zoo' kind of stupid! Truly, you didn't think this through? Kind of stupid!"

When I take a deep breath, I notice that I've somehow ended up right in her face, dangerously close to hurting somebody. Pulling myself together, I say calmly, ignoring the slideshow of emotions I see displayed clearly on Alexandra, "Let's review. You took a rumour a few, maybe two, people knew--" Suddenly I stop, hearing a muttered comment from Alexandra, who's got up off the floor, ready for a fight.

"Actually, it was five," she whispers defiantly. Like I care! My point still remains the same!

I shoot her a glare, then decide that the most intimidating tactic at this point is to continue and not acknowledge her weak attempt at a defence, gaining volume with every sentence. "-- and refuted it by sharing an affair of which NO ONE HAD ACCUSED YOU! I begged you to take a break, you refused to!"

"So scared of what your enemies might do to you!" I spit, strutting around her in mockery of her own arrogance, purposefully ignoring the clenched fists she has at her sides. "You're the only enemy you ever seem to lose to!" I see that my words have an effect on her, as her shoulders slump slightly, almost unnoticeable, but I spot it. Now time to drive my point home with a reference to her least favourite person. "You know why Jefferson can do what he wants? He doesn't dignify schoolyard taunts with a response! So yeah, congratulations!"

What else am I supposed to say?

When she turns to me, I see tears threatening to stream down her cheeks, but it only makes my heart harder, colder, crueller. "Angelica," she begs again, seeking comfort and kindness from me, but I'm not giving anything to her. She can go get Reynolds to take care of her. I'm not doing it anymore. She'll probably just publish another paper. The Schuyler-Church Pamphlet. I can see it now.

"You've redefined your legacy." Your damn legacy, ruining your life, ruining our life. "Congratulations."

Then she pulls the stunt of the century. "It was an act of political sacrifice!" she shouts, her stubborn tears refusing to fall, her stubborn pride not allowing her to admit that she is wrong, was wrong, did wrong. 

And if I was harsh then, I'm an absolute animal when I whirl around and scream at the top of my lungs, with tears running down my cheeks, "ALEXANDRA YOU'VE NEVER EVEN MET SACRIFICE!"

"I languished in a loveless marriage in London, I lived only to read your letters. I look at you and think, 'God, what have we done with our lives and what did it get us?' That doesn't wipe the tears or the years away, but I'm back in the city and I'n here to stay, and you know what I'm here to do?" I ask, all the anger leeching out of my voice, leaving only a sad, broken void where there once was joy, hope, excitement. What do we have now? Just broken pieces of the bright painting that was our love, and no matter how hard I try, how I arrange the shards, the picture is never quite right ever again.

"Angelica..."

It hits me that I am the last person she has. 

Too bad she doesn't have me anymore.

Reaching out a slender hand, I caress her cheek gently, noting how it is bone-dry, while mine are soaked. I suppose it's a testament to my humanity, and her lack thereof. I smile gently, staring deep into her brown eyes, searching for any sign of remorse, regret. Nothing. So be it.

With my hand still on her face, I whisper softly, "I'm not here for you."

I turn away so I don't have to see the absolute lack of emotion on her face. That's the one thing I can't handle right now. Without my permission, my mind flips back to that night long, long ago, a night in a simpler time. 

"I know my brother like I know my own mind," I say quietly, pulling my hand away, suddenly exhausted, emotionally and physically. "You will never find anyone as trusting or as kind. And a million years ago he said to me, 'This one's mine,' so I stood by. Do you know why?" I turn to her, my tears falling despite my protests that she's not worth it.

She breaks eye contact, as she should, the shame burning up her cheeks in a red flare. I get no answer, but I wasn't really looking for one. "I love my brother more than anything in this life," my voice is brittle, but I start regaining some of my emotion, putting fire in my words. "I will choose his happiness over mine every time! Elijah--"

Breaking off to take a breath, I hear Alexandra echo his name softly, and it makes the rage flare up in my stomach. She doesn't have the right to speak of him. Not after what she did.

"-- is the best thing in our lives! So never lose sight of the fact that you have been blessed with the best husband! Congratulations!" I yell, and she lowers her head, unable to look at me, because she knows I'm right.

She fiddles with the hem of her skirt, and I take the opportunity to end this conversation in my favour. I lean in close, and when her eyes lock reluctantly with mine, I say violently, "For the rest of your life, every sacrifice you make is for my brother, give him the best life!"

Because he makes every sacrifice for you, and look where it got him. 

"Congratulations!" I shout, before leaving her alone in the room to contemplate what she's done. I have to go find Elijah. But on the way out, I can't help but slam the front door, feeling powerful when the force of it sends the house quivering. I don't look at Alexandra. I don't care what she has to say for herself. 

How could she mess this up? Why? I ask myself, before the answer comes to me.

Because she'll never be satisfied.

Well, neither am I, but I didn't commit social suicide. That excuse is getting so old. It's not like that excuses anyone of anything. Just because someone's unsatisfied doesn't mean they automatically get a free pass.

Unless you're Alexandra Hamilton, then I suppose the rules don't apply to you. Or you think they don't, but it just makes your demise that much more spectacular.


	40. Burn

Elijah's POV

In my hands I hold a bottle of whisky, a pile of your letters, a reminder of your betrayal. Phillip came home yesterday and nearly had a breakdown, because of what you did. Was I not enough? Were we not enough?

I take another drink, feeling the alcohol burn a path through my system, spreading a superficial warmth, one I thought could help me, but it can't erase the pain. Gazing wistfully out the window, I see the stars, gleaming brightly, despite the chaos, and it's inspiring. But then I look down and see the destruction of our yard, our home, and my heart falls, and I slide to the floor, a sobbing mess.

"I saved every letter you wrote me," I whisper, my fingers tracing the creases and folds in the papers, the smell of ink and parchment drowned by the stench of whisky. My voice breaks, and I can't continue to speak. From the moment I read them, I knew you were mine. You said you were mine. I thought you were mine.

Do you know what Angelica said when we saw your first letter arrive? I ask you, even though you're not actually here, and you'll never be able to comprehend how terribly you've hurt me.

She said, "Be careful with that one, love. She will do what it takes to survive."

And at the time, I didn't know what that meant, or maybe I did, but I just refused to acknowledge it. Instead I plunged right into a relationship, too blinded by love to think of the consequences.

You and your words flooded my senses. Your sentences left me defenceless. You built me palaces out of paragraphs; you built cathedrals.

Shaking, my hands open letters left and right, taken over by a mad desire for closure. I'm re-reading the letters you wrote me. I'm searching and scanning for answers in every line, for some kind of sign, and when you were mine, the world seemed to burn.

We burned with that passion, the love, the fire that was us, that defined every waking moment of our lives. That ruled how we lived, how we thought, how we acted. Or, at least, it did for me. I'm starting to see that we have differing viewpoints on the responsibilities that come with marriage, with a family.

You published the letters she wrote you. Yes, I know it was a she. You pretended it was James, but I know it was Maria. You broke my heart for another woman, and that hurts more than you can possibly know. You told the whole world how you brought this girl into our bed, and in clearing your name, you have ruined our lives.

Do you know what Angelica said when she read what you'd done? She said, "You have married an Icarus. She has flown too close to the sun."

And that's all very well and good, but that's not what you've done. That makes it sound like you had good intentions, like all should have gone well. Like you weren't supposed to get caught, but oh well! I'll have you know that I'm not as kind as my sister now that you've ruined everything.

What you did was take what we had, a perfectly fine, respectable marriage with a wonderful, happy family, and turned it into an ugly reminder of everything that went wrong. And you were never home, and our children missed you and asked for you constantly, but they never hated you before. I never hated you before. You've traded your entire family for a few passionate nights with that woman.

You and your words, obsessed with your legacy! Your sentences border on senseless, and you are paranoid in every paragraph, how they perceive you...

You, you, you... 

Because it's always about you. Never anyone else, only you. Suddenly, an idea seizes me.

I'm erasing myself from the narrative. Let future historians wonder how Elijah reacted when you broke his heart. You've torn it all apart, I'm watching it burn!

An uncontrollable rage comes upon me, and I grab the bundle of letters, the bundle of lies, and the candle standing on the table. I light the papers up right there, not caring if the entire house goes up in flames. I watch the ink sizzle and splatter, washing away the lies, washing away you. Watching it burn.

I drop the letters into the bucket that's being used to collect leaks when it rains. I was supposed to fix it, but it's hard when you have to raise your children, teach them, deal with your wife, and do all the maintenance. It's enough to drive a man mad!

The world has no right to my heart! Even though you already told the world all about yours, and is seems I don't have a place in it. The world has no place in our bed! They don't get to know what I said! I'm burning the memories, burning the letters, that might have redeemed you!

You forfeit all rights to my heart! To be honest, I don't know why I gave you so much power in the first place, why I let you walk all over me. You forfeit the place in our bed! You sleep in your office instead! Because you love your work more than all of us, I doubt you'll mind much. With only the memories of when you were mine!

"I hope that you burn," I whisper, watching the flames lick at the tin, casting eerie shadows and strange lights flickering throughout the room. I fall back against the wall, angry tears and sad tears forming simultaneously. And as I sink further and further into despair, the whisky bottle slowly empties itself into my stomach, a pathetic attempt to ease the nagging sense that it's all my fault, that I'm not enough. 

Even though I know I've done everything I can, you still find a way to make me doubt myself, to make me feel like I'm in the wrong, that I'm worthless, that everything I am is a mistake.

And if I'm being honest, that hurts more than your affair, your lies.


	41. Blow Us All Away

Phillip's POV

Meet the latest graduate of King's College! I probably shouldn't brag, but dag, I amaze and astonish! The scholars say I got the same virtuosity and brains as my mum. The ladies say that's not where the resemblance stops! I wink at some cute chicks, who giggle, blush, and turn away.

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention. I'm awesome.

I'm only nineteen, but my mind is older. Gotta be my own self, like my mother, but bolder! I shoulder her legacy with pride! I used to hear her say that someday I would blow us all away!

I spot another pair of girls and approach them for two reasons. One of them is a very valid reason; I have to find someone. The second is because they are very beautiful. "Ladies," I say, all business-like, "I'm looking for a Mr. George Eacker. Made a speech last week, our Fourth of July speaker. He disparaged my mother's legacy in front of a crowd," I explain, and they both nod knowingly. "I can't have that, I'm making my mother proud."

The first girl, who has brilliantly fluffy hair, full lips, and a stance that says, Mess with me and you die, says, "I saw him just up Broadway a couple of blocks. He was going to see a play." She elongates the last word, dragging a soft hand over my arm. I get her message, and I'd love to, but I can't right now.

"Well, I'll go visit his box," I say quickly, not wanting to hurt any feelings or burn any bridges. 

The shorter one, with silky black hair moves closer, swishing her hips seductively with each step. When she's close enough that I feel her breath on my neck, she grabs the collar of my jacket and growls, "God, you're a fox," in a voice that makes my heart beat faster. Then it comes to me. The perfect solution. 

"And y'all look pretty good in your frocks. How about when I get back we all strip down to our socks?"

"Okay!" they giggle, a little shocked at first, but satisfied nonetheless. The brunette twirls out of my grasp with a teasing smile, pulling a string somewhere inside me that wants to just stay with her, forget about Eacker.

Then I mentally slap myself. Make your mother proud! Stop being such a wimp!

\--Blow us all away--

"George!" I shout, ignoring the production of The Wet Indian and all the other people all dressed up to watch it. Their entertainment can wait. I have a record to set straight.

He doesn't even look at me, just hisses, "Shh!" like the rest of the crowd, which makes me furious.

"GEORGE!" I shout louder, storming across the room so that I am directly blocking his line of sight. 

He stands up, protesting, "Shh! I'm trying to watch the show!"

"You should've watched your mouth before you talked about my mother though!" I retort, putting my hands on my hips in defiance.

"I didn't say anything that wasn't true," Eacker says slowly, visibly relaxed. He doesn't see me as a threat, I realize, and he leans forward to finish his thought. "Your mother is a scoundrel, and so, it seems, are you."

By now, all actors have stopped acting, and all audience members are watching us. Collectively they cringe, wince, and "Ooooooooooh!" -ing at the insult. It wasn't even that good, okay?

Well, it's better than anything I've got. He's treating me like a child!

I cross my arms defencively, putting on an air of disbelief. "It's like that?"

"Yeah, I don't fool around," boasts Eacker casually, exaggerating all of his movements so that his shrug looks more like an avalanche in the Alps. "I'm not your little schoolboy friends."

With the derisive laughs of those around me egging me on, I make a rash choice, going with my gut instincts. "I'll see you on the duelling ground! That is," I challenge, "unless you want to step outside and go now?"

Eacker dismisses me like I'm nothing, retaking his seat and waving a careless hand in my direction. He doesn't even have the decency to look at me, the prick! "I know where to find you. Piss off, I'm watching this show now."

\--

I burst into my mother's office like a tornado, knocking over her books and things, scattering various papers that I didn't know were there until they came floating down around my head. She yells at me, but I can't make put what she's saying because she has a quill in between her teeth.

"Mum, if you had only heard the shit he said about you! I doubt you would have let it slide, and I was not about to--" I exclaim loudly, too loudly, I guess, because she winces and covers her ears.

She grabs me by my arms, cutting me off, and,looking me directly in the eyes, says firmly, "Slow down."

"I came to ask you for advice. This is my very first duel," I say, suddenly insecure about the whole thing. Her eyes widen in shock, and she freezes, no doubt sucked into a memory from long ago. My guess is she's reliving the war for a brief moment. I try to bring her back by mumbling, "They don't exactly cover this subject in boarding school."

She snaps out of it, returning to the issue at hand with a brisk business air. In full lawyer-mode, she asks, "Did your friends attempt to negotiate a peace?"

Yes, mum. We do know the basics, the ten rules. We're inexperienced, not stupid.

"He refused to negotiate, we had to let the peace talks cease."

My mother nods once, twice, three times, then, running a hand through her hair asks, "Where is this happening?" sounding all the world like a harried police interrogator.

"Across the river in Jersey," I say, and her face... falls, for some reason. Disappointment, maybe? But in what? In me? Surely not. I haven't done anything wrong.

We say together, with totally different inflections and emotions, "Everything is legal in New Jersey." I'm excited, unable to stay still, while she's resigned, jaded, almost fearful. Of what?

"Alright. Here's what you're going to do:" she says, and I'm confused. Don't I just shoot the guy and be done with it? Apparently not, because she's pleading earnestly with me, shaking me fervently, "stand there like a man until Eacker is in front of you. When the time comes, fire your weapon in the air. This will put an end to the whole affair."

I look deep into her eyes, unable to see what's so great about this plan, and have no qualms about voicing that fact. "But what if he decides to shoot? Then I'm a goner!"

"No. He'll follow suit if he's truly a man of honour," she says confidently, but I'm still not convinced. Are we talking about the same man, here? 

"To take someone's life, that's something you can't shake. Phillip, your father can't take another heartbreak," she tells me, serious as the grave, and I know she's referring both to the Reynolds Pamphlet and my aunt Peggy's death, but I think she's selling my father short. He's much stronger than he's given credit for.

I try to protest, because it's my life, after all, but she cuts me off. "Mother--"

"Promise me! You don't want this young man's blood on your conscience!"

Sighing, I concede. She's right. She's my mum, after all. So I tell her, "Okay, I promise."

Then her face softens, and she wishes me good luck, saying, "Come back home when you're done. Take my guns. be smart. Make me proud, son." Handing me her special duelling pistols, she kisses me quickly on the forehead before rushing out, mumbling an excuse about a meeting that I know she doesn't have.

\--

My name is Phillip. I am a poet. And I'm a little nervous but I can't show it. I get the sensation someone is watching me as I travel to the meeting place, and the distinct impressions of emotions: sadness, fear, disappointment. Immediately I get defensive and say out loud, "I'm sorry, I'm a Hamilton with pride! You talk about my mother, I cannot let it slide!"

I approach the small party that's gathered at my destination, namely a doctor, Eacker and his second, and my second. "Mr. Eacker!" I call, putting a conciliatory smile on my face, hoping that maybe we can still avoid this. "How was the rest of your show?"

Eacker responds with his usual unpleasantness and sneers, "I'd rather skip the pleasantries, let's go! Grab your pistol!" 

He's rushing the duel, but there's nothing I can do to stop it without him thinking I'm a coward or something, so I just go along with it. "Confer with your men! The duel will commence after we count to ten!" I yell, making sure everyone is clear on the rules. I'd hate for there to be any miscommunication. Do you know how bad that would be?

Count to ten!

Look him in the eye, aim no higher. Summon all the courage you require! Then slowly and clearly aim your gun toward the sky!

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven--

Something tears through me, burning a hole through my entire torso, ending its fiery trail in my arm. I would scream, but the pain is too much, and the wide, welcoming doors of unconsciousness close around me, and I feel the presence again, the entity's grief overwhelming.

I look into its eyes and see a man much like myself, stained with blood, mostly his, partly others. It makes me nauseous, until I realize that I am no better, the lifeblood still dripping down my fingers even in this stage of limbo.

It's John Laurens, I realize, faint memories coming back. The drawer my mother keeps that all of us pretend not to know about but have all explored on numerous occasions. Cold in my professions, warm in my friendships, one read. Another said, Like a jealous lover, when I thought you'd slighted my caresses...

That's the man. And I know now, as he reaches a hand out from the gloomy mist, he's come to take me home.


	42. Stay Alive (Reprise)

Alexandra's POV

Stay alive...

"Where is my son!" I scream, and everyone on the street immediately falls silent, moving to let me through. Rushing towards the doctor's house, I see the door swing open and a figure beckon me in, hazy from the tears.

"Madam Hamilton, come in," says the doctor, placing a steadying hand on my back to guide me through the doorway. "They brought him in a half an hour ago. He lost a lot of blood on the way over."

Grabbing at his arm, I ask desperately, "Is he alive?" That's all that matters now.

"Yes," he confirms, and I let out a breath, feeling tears prickle at the back of my eyes. "But," he continues, and my heart falls, "you have to understand. The bullet entered just above his hip and lodged in his right arm."

Stifling a scream, a vision fills my mind, one that I never wanted to see, one that will haunt my dreams for years to come.

My little Phillip, still a boy, fidgeting before the duel, nervously flicking the safety off and on, shuffling back and forth on his feet. He goes through the paces, breathing deeply, mumbling under his breath. He's speaking to me, asking for my protection. I can't give it.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven...

That's when it happens. Phillip is standing sideways, hands hanging uselessly at his sides, and a shot rings out, slamming into his abdomen, tearing through flesh and organs, sending blood splashing every which way, until it finally comes to rest in his arm. He stands upright for a silent moment, before collapsing in on himself, the shock causing him to black out.

It's the worst thing I've ever seen, and I was in the war.

Shaking off the gruesome sight as best I can, I grab the doctor by his lapels and beg, "Can I see him please?"

He sighs, then proceeds to give the patented speech so he won't be held accountable if worst comes to worst. I can't even say the word. God, I'm pathetic! "I'm doing everything I can, but the wound was already infected when he arrived."

Then he leads me to the bed where my son, my beautiful son lays, blotting the blankets with red ink. Choking back a sob, I gasp out, "Phillip?" I can't believe that this man is my little boy, about to meet his maker. I won't believe it.

He greets me with a red-ringed smile, froth bubbling at the corners of his lips, pulling at my heartstrings. "Ma," he manages to say weakly, though he can't even raise his head.

"I did exactly as you said, Ma," Phillip gasps, and I feel my throat constrict. I did this. It's my fault. "I held my head up high."

Like there was any doubt. My boy could never disappoint me. I only disappoint myself.

Taking his head in my arms, I cradle him one last time, letting my tears flow freely, whispering, "I know, I know. Shh. I know, I know. Shh. I know. You did everything just right," I assure him, feeling the worst guilt in the world. I was supposed to protect him, teach him, and instead I kill him. What kind of mother does that make me?

"Even before we got to ten--"

I cut him off. I can't hear this. "Shh," I beg, attempting to drown out his last words, which sounds awful, and it is, but I just can't bear to see my son like this. 

But, bless his soul, he keeps going, his hoarse voice barely above a croak, even as I mumble my mantra over and over, hoping for a miracle from the heavens. "I was aiming for the sky, I was aiming for the sky."

His voice is fading and his eyes are drooping, and I panic. Shaking him by the shoulders, which I know isn't the recommended medical practice, I shout through my tears, "Save your strength and stay alive!"

"No!" screams a voice from the door, and I turn to see my husband in his nightclothes, the very picture of despair. He runs to us, pushing me out of the way to get to Phillip, he places his shaking hands so they hover uncertainly over our son's bloody body. I reach out my own to offer comfort, but he pulls away.

Protesting softly, I say, "Elijah..." but trail off when he talks over me, obviously not caring what I have to say for myself.

"Is he breathing?" fusses Elijah, pulling at his hair, knowing that the end is soon, but unwilling to admit to that knowledge. "Is he going to survive this?" 

An echoing silence answers him, punctuated only by the wheezes of Phillip as the fluids leak from his body and flow into his lungs, but my husband slowly turns to me, his face a death mask. "Who did this? ALEXANDRA, DID YOU KNOW?" he screams, his handsome face an unflattering shade of purple and his entire frame twitching like he's been possessed by the spirit of Satan himself. Good lord. I only have seconds to formulate an appropriate response before being brutally murdered.

Thankfully, my son comes to my aid. Phillip's icy cold hand wraps itself around his father's arm,and Elijah stops in his raging, and instead leans down to catch Phillip's words. Raggedly, he breathes out, "Dad, I'm so sorry for forgetting what you taught me."

Elijah's face crumbles, and I pity the man. What a burden to bear. But I can't talk. I've killed my son.

It still hasn't quite sunk in.

"My son--" chokes Elijah, tears streaming rapidly down his face, and he makes no move to wipe them off, just lets them slide off his cheekbones with no shame. He can't finish his thought, but I think we all know exactly how he feels.

"We played piano," Phillip reminds him, and he smiles through the tears. A pang of... something hits me, right in the heart. If only I'd been there for him, if only I'd tried harder, maybe things would have been different, I find myself wishing, watching these two men cry over each other's losses. If wishes were fishes...

"I taught you piano..."

I put my hand on my husbands, only to have him yank it away, all without breaking eye contact with Phillip, never coming out of the trance he seems to be under. Our son says quietly, remembering better times, "You would put your hands on mine."

Elijah laughs quietly, but it's bittersweet. "You changed the melody every time," he chides him teasingly, causing the younger man to chuckle, which quickly deteriorates into a hacking cough, red bubbles forming at the corners of his mouth.

"Ha. I would always change the line."

Was I the only person with no recollection of this event? Where was I? How could I have missed these vital moments with my son?

Oh yeah, that's right, I was busy with 'more important things.' I was scared of being a part of something so significant, so delicate and sacred as a family, so I hid myself in papers and politics, burying my relations deep down below, where I couldn't mess it up. Well, look how that turned out for you.

"Shh. I know, I know," Elijah tries to comfort him, holding tightly to his hands like that link could keep our son from death.

Phillip can't hold on much longer. Almost sleepily, he repeats, "I would always change the line."

"I know, I know."

My husband takes a deep breath, watching Phillip drift between realms, and does the only thing he can. He sings.

"Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf," he sings quietly, stroking Phillip's hands gently, keeping himself close to Phillip for as long as he can. Joining him, Phillip repeats, adding his own improvisations as he goes.

"Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf."

"Good," praises Elijah, smiling, though it pains him, then continues the song. "Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf."

"Un, deux, trois..." his voice, weak before, peters out at last, leaving an aching silence. The doctor leans in, listening to his chest. For a full minute, no one speaks. He shakes his head, unable to hear a beat.

He's dead.

Elijah refuses to admit it, shaking what once was Phillip roughly, the tears reappearing as he sings, desperately seeking for the answer to his phrase, one that will never be able to sing again. 

"Sept, huit, neuf.... Sept, huit--" he finally stops, slouching over our son's body, a broken man.

I move towards him slowly, intending to comfort him. When my hand is extended, inches from his shoulder, Elijah lets out the most inhuman scream, one that tears apart my mask, brings me out of shock, and the truth smashes into my face, causing me to stagger backwards.

How long, exactly, I remained there, but when I at last leave the room that smells of death and blood, Elijah was still sobbing, screaming, pleading to God for one more chance.


	43. It's Quiet Uptown

There are moments that the words don't reach. There is suffering too terrible to name. You hold your child as tight as you can, and push away the unimaginable. The moments when you're in so deep, it seems easier to just swim down.

The Hamiltons move uptown and learn to live with the unimaginable.

Alexandra's POV

The woman I've become is someone I've never met. She is everything I am not. She is broken and damaged and unsure and at a loss for words. She is not me, I think, but I know she is. 

I spend hours in the garden. I walk alone to the store. And it's quiet uptown. 

I never liked the quiet before.

I take the children to church on Sunday. A sign of the cross at the door. And I pray. 

That never used to happen before.

I hear the whispers echo in my ears, but I don't know if I process them. I've simply gone numb.

"If you see her in the street, walking by herself, talking to herself, have pity."

Phillip, you would like it uptown. It's quiet uptown.

He's still with me. Catching glimpses of him in the corner of the mirror, seeing him in the sheen on my sword, hearing him in the murmur of the crowds and the notes of the songs they sing in the streets for coins. It's my fault he's gone, and he spends every day reminding me.

"He is working through the unimaginable," women whisper, and I am furious. I scream to the world that yes, I am broken, I am damaged, and my son is dead, and that none of you have any right to speak about me in that tone of voice. None of you have tasted of loss nearly as bitterly as me.

But she says nothing. Her hair has gone grey, she passes everyday. They say she walks the length of the city, because it's true. She walks and she walks and she walks in hopes of leaving her ghosts behind.

She can't. They're inside her.

You knock me out, I fall apart.

They can't imagine.

\--

"Look at where we are," I whisper quietly, ashamed to face my husband, who I have cheated out of life and love, feeling the tears roll down my cheeks. "Look at where we started. I know I don't deserve you, Elijah, but hear me out. That would be enough." 

Since I'm staring at his shoes, I don't see his expression, but his feet are still there and he's yet to say a word, I continue, my voice breaking as I do so. "If I could spare his life, if I could trade his life for mine, he'd be standing here right now, and you would smile, and that would be enough."

"I don't pretend to know the challenges we're facing. I know there's no replacing what we've lost, and you need time." I know you need more than that, but I am too messed up to be of any use to you. "But I'm not afraid. I know who I married. Just let me stay here by your side. That would be enough," I beg him desperately, and the air is silent.

\--

"If you see her in the street, walking by his side, talking by her side, have pity."

We've decided to work on this together. We can't do it alone. But that doesn't mean that it's easy, and it doesn't mean it's going to come quickly, but I have faith that it will come. Whether it's in a few weeks, months, years, it will come.

And that fact makes me, not happy, but less torn up. Less utterly destroyed, less breakable. It's the closest to happiness I can get.

"Elijah, do you like it uptown? It's quiet uptown," I ask tentatively, hoping for an answer but receiving none.

She is trying to do the unimaginable, I realize. I could never do that. I was always too proud, too awkward, too headstrong, but she... maybe this new woman is better than I could ever be.

"See them walking in the park, long after dark, taking in the sights of the city."

"Look around, look around, Elijah," I say, because for once in my life I am here. Only it's not me, it's the better me, the new me, who has tasted of loss and heartbreak and is willing to do everything to have anyone go through that again.

This time Elijah actually looks at me, his expression unreadable. He doesn't speak.

It's a start. 

We are trying to do the unimaginable.

\--

Third person POV

There are the moments that the words don't reach. There's a grace too powerful to name. We push away what we can never understand. We push away the unimaginable. 

They are standing in the garden, Alexandra by Elijah's side. 

He takes her hand.

Alexandra's POV

"It's quiet uptown."

Those three words shatter me. Finally, after an eternity of trying, he has spoken to me. I dissolve into a sobbing mess, and I feel his hand stroke mine. It's a small gesture, nothing like the hugs he used to give that would swallow me whole and protect me from the world. But it's something. And it's more than I deserve.

Third person POV

Forgiveness. Can you imagine? 

Forgiveness. Can you imagine?

If you see him in the street, walking by her side, talking by her side, have pity.

They are going through the unimaginable.


	44. The Election of 1800

The Election of 1800

Madison's POV

Slapping the newspaper down on the table, Thomas puts on his best manly-man voice and asks of no one in particular, "Can we get back to politics?"

Quickly, I brush away what was most definitely not a tear, making my own voice gruff. "Please?" I ask, but my voice cracks halfway through the word, making me want to die. It's a good thing Thomas is to afraid of me to give me a hard time about it.

Well, not afraid, per se. More like intimidated. Perhaps respect would be the correct term, but I'm not sure the word is in his vocabulary.

Even as it is, Thomas still shoots me a look, which I combat with one that says I know all your secrets, so if you fuck with me I will chop you into small cubes and feed you to the grieving Hamilton family. He shudders, my message received, before launching into his own pep talk.

"Yo. Every action's got its equal, opposite reaction. John Adams shat the bed." We have a moment of silence for our fallen comrade. No man deserves to go out that way. "I love the guy, but he's in traction." No shit, Einstein. "Poor Alexandra Hamilton? She is missing in action." Hence the newspaper. "So now I'm facing Aaron Burr with his own faction."

Despite my nonchalant air, I'm actually quite worried about this election, and I decide to voice them. I'm concerned Thomas isn't taking this matter as seriously as he should. Our former SOUTHERN MOTHERFUCKING DEMOCRATIC-REPUBLICAN isn't easily dissuaded. "He's very attractive in the North. New Yorkers like his chances," I warn him, but he brushes it off, laughing.

"He's not very forthcoming on any particular stances."

That's true. I admit, "Ask him a question: it glances off, he obfuscates, he dances." But still, Thomas, you're running for President! Let's try not to screw this up!

"And they say I'm a Francophile:" he says, throwing his hands up in the air, scandalized. Thomas, that's because you are one. Embrace it. "at least they know I know where France is!"

Ha. John Adams tried to sail to France once, for relations with the Europeans. Guess where he ended up.

Spain.

This is why he got dragged by Hamilton.

"Thomas, that's the problem, see, they see Burr as a less extreme you," I say calmly, using logic to point out the facts so he can see them and start to make smart political moves. It's not that he can't do it on his own, it's just that he won't. So it's times like this that I'm here for.

Grunt. How intellectual, Thomas. Your IQ is showing.

"You need to change course, a key endorsement might redeem you."

"Who did you have in mind?" Thomas asks.

Moment of truth. This plan of mine is genius, but it will only work if he is receptive to the idea. He probably won't be. Giving one last warning, I say to him, "Don't laugh."

Sniggering, he asks, "Who is it?"

I take a deep breath, ignoring the looks I get from Thomas. I can't imagine what he's thinking right now. It's not flattering, I can feel it. "You used to work on the same staff," I say hesitantly, eyes slipping down to the floor even though I have nothing to be ashamed of.

"Whaaaat?" Everything about his posture screams of incredulity. His arms folded across his chest, his eyebrow raised, and that goddamn smirk closes him off to me, and therefore closes his mind to new ideas. 

"I'm just saying," I huff, now crossing my own arms, "it might be nice," I say, then am hit with a flashback,"it might be nice, to get Hamilton on your side."

To my amazement, Thomas actually nods his head, albeit reluctantly, then joins in with me, saying, "It might be nice, it might be nice to get Hamilton on our side."

Then, with renewed energy, Thomas rockets out the door to revamp his campaign, leaving behind a trail of loose parchment and me, sitting shell-shocked at the table, wondering what the hell just happened to him and why I find it so ... stimulating.

\--

Burr's POV

Talk less, I think to myself as I hand out flyers to people on the street, a dashing smile on my face. This position is mine for the taking if I just play my cards right. Smile more. Don't let them know what you're against or what you're for. They can' t fight you if you don't give them anything to hurt you with.

Shake hands with him, he's an upstanding businessman and bound to get more supporters for your campaign. See that sweet old lady? Charm her, she'll tell her bingo partners and word will spread about the handsome young lad who's just ever so kind.

"It's eighteen hundred," I announce, because it's an important voting year. We'll get out second real President, and I'm making damn sure it's me. Turning to the small congregation of women outside the shop windows, I complete my statement, "ladies, tell your husbands: vote for Burr!"

\--

"I don't like Adams," I overhear a voter whisper to his wife, although it's not much of a secret. No one likes him. I've been lurking behind doors, garden walls, newspapers and in alleys for weeks now, learning how to endear myself to the public, and whether or not it's working. These are all very important things for a Presidential candidate to consider, you know.

Clutching his arm, she rushes to agree, scoffing, "Well, he's going to lose, that's just defeatist." 

As I said before, no one likes Adams.

Another pair walks by, this time two men. I perk up; these are the voters. These are the people I need to convert to my side. They pause conveniently just short of my hiding place, allowing me to overhear the tail-end of their conversation. "And Jefferson--"

The shorter man is joined in his scorning by his blond companion, leading me to believe that this isn't the first time the partners have had this conversation. Together they chorus derisively, "--in love with France!"

"Yeah, he's so elitist!" chimes in a woman crossing the street, eager to talk shit about the fake Frenchman. Honestly, where does one start with that man? The slavery? The women?

She stops, a star-struck look flitting across her face, leaving the pair of men perplexed. Noticing their confusion, she gets slightly defensive, explaining, "I like that Aaron Burr." 

FIGHT ME, JEFFERSON, YOU JUDGMENTAL ASS-FACE! BET YOU'RE WISHING YOU'D'VE TALKED LESS AND SHIT LIKE THAT!

Back to the situation at hand, though. Another woman, who is slightly familiar but not enough to be recognized edges her way into the discussion to add her two cents. Unfortunately, a horse and buggy passes, eclipsing her words with the ear-splitting sound of rusty metal grating against more rusty metal. What I heard come out of her mouth was, "I can't believe EEEEAHEEEEAAAAAEEEESSSCREEECH him!" I choose to take it as a compliment.

Blondie says, "He seems approachable."

Hell yeah, I'm approachable!

"Like you could grab a beer with him!" the shorter man says, like it's some sort of revelation, before cuffing Blondie gently on the shoulder in a gesture that means Want a drink? in the obscure but still learnable language of the stereotypical man.

The four of them part ways, gradually drifting farther and farther away from me and the topic of politics, and I try not to scream, pumping my fist up and down in wild victory. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! 

Today is a good day.

\--

Hamilton's POV

Dear Ms. Hamilton: Your fellow Federalists would like to know how you'll be voting...

I put down the letter. I should've known it would be them, asking for me to tell them what to do. But I'm not that person anymore. I've moved past that pettiness. Still, my hand trembles when I hold it, and I can't find it within myself to drop it into the bin. The letter hovers above the garbage for a full minute before I finally get it together. It's quiet uptown, I remind myself, releasing the paper into the bin.

I find another one in my mailbox the day later.

Dear Ms. Hamilton: John Adams doesn't stand a chance, so who are you promoting?

This time I throw it away after only thirty seconds. It's quiet uptown.

But the onslaught of written requests is a stream that never runs dry. Stacks and stacks of letters pile up on the doorstep, creating a small mountain. I open each and every one, in the hope that this time I'll get an actual letter. But no.

Jefferson or Burr? We know it's lose-lose. But if you had to choose?

Dear Ms. Hamilton: John Adams doesn't stand a chance, so who are you promoting? 

Jefferson or Burr? We know it's lose-lose. But if you had to choose? 

\--

Burr's POV

"Well, if it isn't Aaron Burr. Sir!" says Alexandra, a wide smile on her face that is a few watts too bright to be genuine. It's been rough, I get that. There's no judgment from me; I've been there.

I smile at the sight of my old friend. "Alexandra!"

"You've created quite a stir, sir," she remarks, that painful smile still fixed tightly on her face. If she's trying to make it seem like she's fine, she's failing miserably. I've seen corpses look more chipper than her.

We stare at each other for a moment, showing every single one of our teeth for the longest time. Finally I clear my throat and say, desperate for an end to the silence, "I'm going door-to-door." Which is why I'm in this mess in the first place.

"You're openly campaigning?" she asks, incredulous. Or maybe awed. One of the two. Either is understandable; it's an unusual approach. When I shrug, she remarks, "That's new."

In a burst of empathy, I decide to let her see behind the mask I wear for the public, admitting quietly, "Honestly, it's kind of draining."

"Burr--" she starts, but I cut her off. We're done talking.

"Sir!" I joke, my own smile starting to crack under the strain. Sadly, she doesn't get the message, and starts to accuse me.

"Is there anything you wouldn't do?"

Well, what's that supposed to mean? What is she implying I would do? I mean, I do make a habit out of fucking married women. Oh, wait. That wasn't me, that was sweet Alexandra over here! Maybe she should get her head out of her ass and realize that she has no right to judge me, with all the shit she's done.

My face goes hard, any attempt at smiling more gone. I've given this bitch enough of my time. I have a campaign to run, and I tell her so, before storming dramatically off her porch in a way that would make both Thomas Jefferson and King George III jealous."

"No. I'm chasing what I want, and you know what? I learned that from you."

Burr-n!

\--

Madison's POV

I'm hoping to God that those spineless Federalists that we paid off got an answer out of Hamilton. This is killing me! AND I'M NOT EVEN RUNNING! They'd better have her on our side, or I swear I'll--

Shh. Calming thoughts, James. Calming thoughts. You know when you get worked up your throat closes, and that would just make this whole situation so much worse. Let's just keep it together, shall we?

Yes, we shall. 

That still doesn't stop the rapid beating of my heart or that one line from those letters repeating over and over in an endless loop in my head. If you had to choose, if you had to choose...

I look over the results, and feel my breathing come ragged and quick. If I had a mirror, I could check and see how pale my face is, from a scale of 1 to albino, but I know that would only make me even more upset and add to my distress. "It's a tie!" I choke out, trying to pretend everything's fine when it's clearly not, but Thomas picks up on my discomfort, rubbing circles in my tense back. It's nice, but it's not very helpful.

If you had to choose, if you had to choose...

I hear Thomas gasp behind me, then: "It's up to the delegates!" 

If you had to choose, if you had to choose...

The two of us come to a realization at the same time. "It's up to Hamilton!" we exclaim, and I immediately double over in a coughing fit. I'm not surprised. I'm just amazed that I haven't ruptured a blood vessel or something.

If you had to choose, if you had to choose, if you had to choose.... Choose, choose, choose!

"Yo!" she shouts, bursting into the room like a woman on crack. Jesus, does she really feel the need to announce herself like this every goddamn time? It's going to give me a heart attack, I swear to fucking God.

Jumping up onto the table, she makes her inevitable speech, crying, "The people are asking to hear my voice! The nation is facing a difficult choice!" I spot Burr, who's standing opposite us and rolling his eyes. He thinks he's going to win, I realize. He thinks there's no way she'll support us. And who can blame him?

"And if you were to ask me who I'd promote--" she pauses for dramatic effect, then crashes to a finish, "--Jefferson has my vote!"

No. Fucking. Way.

I mean, this is great for us, but still.

There's no. Fucking. Way.

I'm dreaming. That's what it is. Some fucked-up dream where Thomas and Hamilton don't try to piss on each other for once. Ha. 

But then I get hit by something the size of New York City itself, and the unidentified thing squeezes what little air I had left in my lungs out. It takes me a moment to realize that I'm being hugged by Thomas, not being crushed by a giant boulder. 

Wait, that means it's real?

Holy shit, it's real!

"I have never agreed with Jefferson once!" Hamilton continues, though the rest of the world is in chaos -- screaming, crying, catatonic. No one cares! I tell her telepathically, because I think Thomas has broken my vocal chords. "We have fought on, like, seventy-five different fronts! But when all is said and all is done, Jefferson has beliefs. Burr has none."

Hold up. What?

The room goes silent, like a record scratch. Then from the crowd arises a single, unified, "Oooooooooooh."

A moment of silence for our fallen bother.

Hahahahahahahahaha no.

Burn, bitch, burn!

(Hahahhaha burr-n.)

"Well, I'll be damned. Well, I'll be damned," Thomas and I laugh, closer to tears than either of us will ever admit. I'm so happy, I could kiss someone!

But I won't, because I HAVE CONTROL OVER MY EMOTIONS!

"Hamilton's on your side," I say, not because it isn't obvious, but because I'm so fucking relieved, you have no idea. Do you know how much work I went through during this campaign? Do you?

I didn't think so.

Through the crowd, ripples of amused/angry/skeptical comments flow, passing from person to person, making my joy grow with every whisper. This is the best day of my life!

Thomas turns to me. "And?" he asks, like he doesn't know the answer.

"You won in a landslide," I reassure him, and he hugs me again, just in case I didn't have any bones that hadn't been turned to powder yet.

We're about to go out for a drink, when who should approach us but Mr. Burr-Sir himself. Come to kiss some ass, I presume?

"Congrats on a race well-run," he says amiably, careful to stay respectful. "I did give you a fight."

Thomas makes a derisive noise, and I elbow him in the ribs. It was close, and we were both worried, so there's no need to be over-confident. Except for the fact that he is Thomas Jefferson, and his middle name is Cheeky Magenta Bastard.

Well, you name a kid that, what do you expect?

The two of them are having a perfectly civil conversation, so of course Burr has to go and ruin that by saying, "I look forward to our partnership."

"Our partnership?" asks Thomas, folding his arms and leaning away ever so slightly.

"As your Vice-President," Burr elaborates, and I facepalm. Literally. But I'm in the background, so no one notices.

Thomas lets loose the most horrific laugh known to man, which is more like a horse's neigh than the laughter of a human, and it is in that moment that Burr knows just how fucked he is. "You hear this guy?" asks Thomas after he finishes his braying. "Man openly campaigns against me, talking about, 'I look forward to our partnership.'"

Desperate eyes find their way to me, but there is no mercy in mine. Choosing my words deliberately, I damn Burr further. "It is crazy that the man who comes in second gets to be Vice-President."

It's a cruel world, Burr. You're either the best, or you're nothing.

"Yeah, you know what?" Thomas turns to me, mock astonishment on his face. "We can change that! You know why?"

He said "we". Oh, Thomas. You're such a figurehead. You want to know who's really in charge? It's me. President James Madison. 

I humour him, even though I know the answer. "Why?"

"Because I'm the President."

You mean, because we're the President.

"Hey, Burr!" Thomas stops him as the other man walks away, and says with a smirk, "When you see Hamilton, thank her for the endorsement."

Now that would hurt. To his credit, though, Burr walks away without letting any of his emotions show, preserving his dignity as much as possible.

Turning to Thomas, I realize that he is one of the rudest, hypocritical, charming, funniest, crudest, selectively caring men I have ever met.

But, dammit, I love him for it.

I link my arm through his, leading him out the doors. "Let's go celebrate, Mr. President," I say, and we walk through the December air. In that moment, I wouldn't be anywhere else, even though my nose has started to run and it's really fucking cold outside.


	45. Your Obedient Servant

Burr's POV

No.

No.

No.

NO!

This isn't happening. I stand, shell-shocked, watching the world pass by in one blur of colour, feeling the cold hands of December wrap around my heart. This is what death feels like, I think numbly, unaware of where my feet are taking me as they fall slowly, one after another

It was going so well, I could smell victory. To me, it smelled like the comfort mac&cheese Jefferson would cook to make himself feel better after he lost. It smelled like the air after rain, like the smell of expensive soaps.

How could this happen?

Alexandra.

Alexandra fucking Hamilton.

Just because she could.

I hear a door slam, only half aware that I am now standing in my foyer, wet snow sliding off my shoulders and splattering onto the floor. Dimly, I realize that my hands are clenched so tightly that my nails are drawing blood, and slowly release the death grip. Admiring the slim crescents, rage boils in my stomach, and my hands start to shake, sending drops of red slipping across my palms.

How does Hamilton, an arrogant immigrant, orphan, bastard, whore-spawn, somehow endorse Thomas Jefferson, her enemy? A man she's despised since the beginning, just to keep me from winning!

I want to be in the room where it happens, the room where it happens, the room where it happens. You've kept me from the room where it happens for the last time...

My bloodied digits scramble across a surface I wasn't aware of until my fingers brushed against, landing on a quill, which I ink distractedly, undoubtedly spilling the black liquid every which way. It's bound to stain.

I slide into the chair at what I've now identified as my desk, and it's kind of trippy, because what seemed like just a moment ago, I was barely inside the door, and now I'm all the way to the back of the house, with no recollection of how I got here.

Weird.

Tearing through my drawers, I finally locate a semi-decent piece of parchment, perfect for my task. Smoothing it quickly, I lower the point of the quill and write, as neat as possible,

Dear Alexandra:

I am slow to anger, but I toe the line when I reckon with the effects of your life on mine. I look back on where I failed, and in every place I checked, the only common thread has been your disrespect.

Now, you call me "amoral," a "dangerous disgrace." If you've got something to say, name a time and place, face to face.

I have the honour to be your obedient servant,

A. Burr

I look over my work, then nod. Aside from the incredibly dark writing towards the end, as the quill nearly got embedded in the wood, it is a fabulous piece of artwork.

I can't wait to mail it.

\--

Mr. Vice President:

Okay, first of all.... WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!??!?!?!?

I am not the reason no one trusts you. No one knows what you believe. I will not equivocate on my opinion, I have always worn it on my sleeve. Even if I said what you think I said, you would need to cite a more specific grievance. Here's an itemized list of thirty years of disagreements.

Well, that would explain all the crates sitting on my porch. Do I have to sort through all of them? Bitch! "Sweet Jesus," I sigh, creating a false atmosphere of calm. Inside of me there is a rage that in unfathomable. I will make her pay. She thinks she can push me around? She thinks this is a joke, that it's all going to blow over? HA! I was almost the President! I had everything I could ever want, right there in front of me. So yeah, this is personal. This is the very definition of personal!

But wait. There's more.

Hey, I am just one voice, trying to do what's best for our republic. I don't want to fight, but I won't apologize for doing what's right!

DOING WHAT'S RIGHT?!? DON'T WANT TO FIGHT?!?! EXCUSE ME?

Who even are you? What do you want from me, devil woman? You already took everything, how greedy can you be?

I have the honour to be your obedient servant,

A. Ham

Cute. Real cute. Well, two can play at that!

I assemble my writing supplies, ignoring the scrapes and scratches in my desk from the first letter, and compose my fiery response, feeling the heat from my anger fuel the words. Skipping the entire greeting portion, I jump right into the meat-and-potatoes.

Careful how you proceed, good ma'am. Intemperate indeed, good ma'am. Answer for the accusations I lay at your feet or prepare to bleed, good ma'am.

There. If that doesn't make myself clear, I don't know what will.

\--

Burr, your grievance is legitimate.

Of course it is. THIS WAS NEVER A QUESTION.

I stand by what I said, every bit of it.

Again, no surprises. 

You stand only for yourself, it's what you do! 

There once was a time I might've stood for her, but no longer. She can fight her own battles, and if she loses, well, all the better for me. 

I can't apologize because it's true!

Why. Why are you like this? All I asked was for an apology for ruining my life, but nooooooo. She would rather die than abandon her goddamn pride for a single minute and admit she was out of line. 

Well, that can be arranged.

Then stand, Alexandra. Weehawken, dawn. Guns, drawn.

\--

When I receive the response, a mere two words, I smile. Not out of joy, or humour, or pride. It's pure bloodlust.

You're on.

I spin in my chair, contemplating the events of the recent past and near future, remembering wise words from a wise man. The world will never be the same...

And how true is that. Soon a sun will rise, and one of us will not. 

Can you hear the rush of blood, the pounding of my heart, the song of my soul? 

I can't wait.

I have the honour to be your obedient servant,

A. Ham

A. Burr


	46. Best of Men and Best of Women

Alexandra's POV

Swinging out of bed, I hold in my breath, hoping beyond hope that the bed won't squeak, and that my shifting of movement won't wake my sleeping husband. My feet hit the floor and I freeze, waiting to see if Elijah's awoken.

Nope. He's still snoring.

I pad over to the door, still wary of the boards beneath me, then hesitate. With a sudden change of heart, I approach my desk and pull out the chair.

SCREEEEEEEE!

Shit.

I hear the bed behind me creak, and I hear Elijah yawn. Then, his voice still thick with sleep, he says, "Alexandra, come back to sleep."

"I have an early meeting out of town," I say shortly, keeping my back to him so that he can't see the torment on my face, the sadness in my eyes. My quill scratches along the parchment, the only sound in the room.

He shifts, making my heart speed up. What if he gets up, what if he sees? "It's still dark outside," he points out, perhaps wondering if I'm even aware of the time.

"I know," I reassure him softly, but I'm really just trying to calm myself. "I just need to write something down."

Elijah laughs, but it's not his usual laugh. This one is rumbling, deep, thunder-esque. "Why do you write like you're running out of time?"

Because I am. Because we all are.

"Shh," I beg him, feeling wetness streak down my face.

"Come back to bed. That would be enough."

But I'm not enough. I can never be enough for a man like Elijah, strong and sensitive and more deserving of someone who can better cater to his needs, his emotions, than I can.

Instead of saying this, I brush it off, wiping salt residue from my cheeks. Bluntly I say, "I'' be back before you know I'm gone," praying that it's true.

"Come back to sleep."

I almost do. I want to so bad, more than I want anything, but I know I can't. Because if I get in that bed and lay next to my Elijah, I'll never leave. But that soft call, that emotion-filled request tugs at my heartstrings, throwing me into agony.

"The meeting's at dawn."

There's rustling and a creak, then Elijah sighs, settling himself more comfortably into the covers, yawning, "Well, I'm going back to sleep."

"Hey," I say after a moment's pause. "Best of men..."

There's a long silence, then: "and best of women," from under the mound of blankets, leaving a bittersweet and salty smile on my face. I can't believe he remembers that saying from a long night long ago.

I can't believe I'm going to do this.

I sit at the desk until my husband's breaths come deep and even, then slip out into the night with resolve in my heart and tearstains down my cheeks. God have mercy on me.


	47. The World Was Wide Enough

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.

Burr's POV

There are ten things you need to know. Then you can condemn me.

Number one:

We rowed across the Hudson at dawn. My friend, William P. Van Ness, signed on as my number two.

Number two:

Hamilton arrived with her crew: Nathania Pendleton and a doctor that she knew. Turns out she brought the same doctor we used in the Laurens-Lee duel. Foreshadow, much? But I didn't see it. How could I not see it? 

Number three:

I watched Hamilton examine the terrain. I wish I could tell you what was happening in her brain. Her face expressionless, her posture and form uniform, almost mechanical. For some reason, this fact enraged me even more. How could she care so little, after she's taken so much? This woman has poisoned my political pursuits!

Most disputes die and no one shoots, I thought sarcastically. Yeah, right. 

Number four:

Hamilton drew first position, looking, to the world, like a woman on a mission. This is a soldier with a marksman's ability, I realized, and it finally hit me. She's going to shoot.

The doctor turned around so she could have deniability.

Five:

Now, I didn't know this at the time, or I would've chosen a different spot, 'cause I'm not heartless, but we were near the same spot her son died, is that why?

Six:

She examined her gun with such rigor? I watched as she methodically fiddled with the trigger. I remember thinking vividly, Her son died holding that pistol. God, what have I done? 

Seven:

Confession time? Here's what I've got. My fellow soldiers'll tell you, I'm a terrible shot.

Eight: your last chance to negotiate.

I sent William in to meet with Nathania to "set the record straight," but I knew nothing would come of it. The two of us had sunk into a blood fever, baying for each other's blood like wolves, and we wouldn't stop until we had the other's head on a stick.

As I watched the two attempt to right our wrong, something struck me. Now, they won't teach you this in your classes, but look it up! Hamilton was wearing her glasses. Why? If not to take deadly aim?

It's her or me, the world will never be the same!

I had only one thought before the slaughter: This woman will not make an orphan of my daughter!

Number nine!

Look her in the eye, aim no higher! Summon all the courage you require! I scream inwardly, blinking tears out of my eyes. This is one shot I can't afford to miss.

Then count:

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine!

Nathania and William yelled the next commands, and the world shrank to two things: their shouts and Hamilton's heart.

"Number ten paces! Fire!"

My finger squeezes the trigger, and the bullet explodes from the barrel.

Alexandra's POV

The bang shocks me out of my thoughts, and I watch in horror as it approaches. Out of all the possible scenarios, I didn't expect this one. I expect, I don't know, Nathania and William to sort it out, or Washington to break through the veil and tell us to stop being dumb fucks. But this, this I didn't see coming.

Inching closer, the bullet is coming for me, but I have moments left, in which my mind races, trying to make sense of what comes next.

I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory. Is this where it gets me, on my feet, several feet ahead of me? I see it coming, do I run, or fire my gun, or let it be?

There is no beat, no melody.

Burr, my first friend, my enemy, may be the last face I ever see. And his face is contorted in rage, showing a dark creature that I'd never imagined a good man like him could be. I made him like this. 

If I throw away my shot, is this how you'll remember me? What if this bullet is my legacy?

Legacy. What is a legacy? It's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see, and that's just disappointing. I want to see the garden, in the height of spring, blooming and blossoming with life, where all types of creatures can find a haven.

I wrote some notes at the beginning of a song someone will sing for me. America, you great unfinished symphony, you sent for me! This can't be how it ends! You let me make a difference, a place where even orphan immigrants can leave their fingerprints and rise up!

I'm running out of time. I'm running, and my time's up. The bullet is just a foot away now, looming closer and closer, prompting cool tears as I stand, frozen, watching it come for me.

Wise up! Eyes up...

Casting my eyes around, I see, in the morning mist, figures beckoning me. Focusing on a select few, I realize who they are, where they've come from, and why.

I catch a glimpse of the other side. John leads a soldiers' chorus on the other side. He winks at me, then goes back to singing a mournful refrain, his lifeblood still staining his ghostly clothes. My son is on the other side. He's with my mother on the other side! They both look so at ease, and the tears come faster and harder. Washington is watching from the other side!

Teach me how to say goodbye...

Rise up, rise up, rise up....

Elijah!

I see him directly in front of me, blocking the bullet from my view. He doesn't say anything, just stares at me blankly. "My love, take your time," I beg him, though he's not actually here and I know that. I've just caused him so much pain, and I want the best for him. "I'll see you on the other side."

Nodding slightly, he turns and walks off, opposite the mist, until he's out of sight.

Looking back into the mist, I see John once more, and he smiles at me. The bullet is so close now, but it's fine. I've made my decision.

Raise a glass to freedom... 

Burr's POV

She aims her pistol at the sky, and in that moment, though it's far to late, I feel myself snatch at the gun, desperately praying for the bullet to swerve, to boomerang, to come back like a small, metal homing pigeon. "Wait!" I scream, animalistic and raw, but I watch the bullet slam into her side, throwing her a good three feet away.

I feel sick.

I strike her right between her ribs. I walk towards her, but I am ushered away. They row her back across the Hudson, her limp body unresponsive.

I get a drink.

I hear wailing in the streets. Somebody tells me, "You'd better hide," but I stay at the bar, dreaming drunken dreams of drunken ghosts. 

They say Angelica and Elijah were both at her side when she died.

Death doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints, it takes and it takes and it takes. History obliterates. Every picture it paints, it paints me in all my mistakes. 

People glance at me and whisper, glaring at me, scorning me, shunning me. Suddenly Alexandra Hamilton is an angel, and I am the monster that brought her down. I am a murderer, but worse. I am the devil.

When Alexandra aimed for the sky, she may have been the first one to die, but I'm the one who paid for it. I survived, but I paid for it.

Now I'm the villain in your history. I was too young and blind to see... I should've known, I should've known the world was wide enough for both Hamilton and me.

The world was wide enough for both Hamilton and me.

But know that she's gone, the world's too small for me. It's going to smother me, all because I made a mistake. The worst mistake of my life, to be sure, but a mistake nonetheless.

You might as well just hang me now.


	48. Ever Yours, Alexandra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a part of the Off-Broadway "Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story" and I liked it so much, I put it in.

Elijah's POV

She's gone. How can she be gone? Just this morning I was asking her to come to bed, but she made up some silly excuse about --

No. 

This is what she was writing? This letter that I hold in my shaking hand, is what she was writing before she left? Before she ruined everything? Again?

Because we finally fixed it! We'd moved on! I thought she'd learned that she didn't have to be the best, or the strongest, or the most correct, she just had to be mine! Was that not enough for her?

I guess that was the problem. She always loved me, there was never doubt about that. I just don't think she loved herself enough to realize how important she was to me, so that when she scheduled that duel, she didn't know how much her absence could hurt.

My very dear Elijah, this letter will not be delivered to you unless I shall first have terminated my earthly career to begin a happy immortality. 

Oh, God, I can't do this. I can't. Instead I put the letter down. It sits on my desk, the one in my room. It used to be our desk, and our room.

Seven days later

I finally gather enough courage to continue reading. People have been by all week, giving their condolences and their "I'm so sorry for your loss," speeches. Someone even dropped off a basket anonymously, leading me to think it was Aaron. That poor man. I hate him, but I understand how much harder this whole ordeal is for him.

I'd need not tell you of the pangs I feel from the idea of quitting you and exposing you to the anguish which I know you would feel. Nor could I dwell on the topic lest it should unmask me. Fly to the bosom of your God and be comforted. 

Tears stream down my face, making me glad the children are out of town with family. It wouldn't be good for them to see me like this.

But, oh! To know that Alexandra cared, that she knew! To have that reassurance of her love for me after all we've been through, it's more than I can possibly describe.

With my last idea; I shall cherish the sweet hope of meeting you in a better world. Adieu best of men and best of husbands. 

A variation of his last words to me, and mine to me. Why is she the perfect wife only after she's gone? 

Ever yours, Alexandra.

And I yours, my love. 'Til we meet again.


	49. Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story

Elijah's POV

In times of unbearable pain, like this, as I lie alone on my deathbed, that I like to remember what trusted figures have said before, and their wise words keep me strong.

Let me tell you what I wish I'd known, when I was young and dreamed of glory. You have no control: who lives, who dies, who tells your story.

I remember Alexandra telling me about that. I was so mad at her that I couldn't even look her in the eye. But even so, General (at the time) Washington's words touched me, and I hoped they touched my wife, too. All this talk of her legacy was making her obsessed, ruining everything we'd tried so hard to build.

And what a legacy hers is.

Over the years, I've asked myself the question, Who lives, who dies, who tells your story? about Alexandra.

I'll give her this: her financial system is a work of genius. I couldn't undo it if I tried. And I tried.

President Jefferson said that. Can you believe it? He said this in an article, about my wife, who he fought with every time he was around her. But he still said this, because my wife, even through her mistakes, was one of the best women we've ever had the privilege to know.

President Madison, his successor, said this in another article, many years later:

She took our country from bankruptcy to prosperity. I hate to admit it, but she doesn't get enough credit for all the credit she gave us.

Of course, they were both politicians, so they published other letters, articles, quotes, et cetera that were less flattering, but I've admired their reluctant sincerity all these years later. It's refreshing to see less hatred and more acceptance.

Every other founding fathers' story gets told. Every other founding father gets to grow old. So why not Alexandra?

But when you're gone, who remembers your name? Who keeps your flame? Who tells your story?

Elijah does. 

This world will not pass over my family.

I put myself back in the narrative. I stop wasting time on tears. I live another fifty years.

It's not enough.

I interview every soldier who fought by your side, Alexandra. I tell their story, like I know you would, if only you were here to do it.

I try to make sense of your thousands, and thousands, and thousands of pages of writings. You really do write like you're running out of time. Burr was right. Who knew?

Oh my god. Burr. My heart hurts now. Goddamn Burr, always shooting people, never considering the consequences. He's like a homicidal child throwing a tantrum. Okay no, let's not use that mental image. 

I rely on Angelica. While she's alive we tell your story. She is buried in Trinity Church near you. I know you'd like that she's always by your side. When I needed her most, she was right on time. I don't know how I'd have done it all without her.

And I'm still not through. I ask myself, "What would you do if you had more time?" The Lord in his kindness, he gives me what you always wanted -- he gives me more time.

I raise funds in D.C. for the Washington Monument. I know how much he meant to you, and I just had to do my part.

I speak out against slavery. You could have done so much more if you only had time.

And when my time is up, have I done enough? Will they tell our story?

Because my time is up, I can feel it. Is this how you felt before? Like you should've done more, like you're going to be forgotten immediately. How every breath catches in your chest, and you never want to let go of it, since it might be your last. How you feel so incredibly alone, like there's no one out there who can understand.

Oh. Can I tell you what I'm proudest of?

The orphanage. I established the first private orphanage in New York City. I help raise hundreds of children. I get to see them growing up, like Phillip should've.

God, now I'm crying.

In their eyes I see you, Alexandra. I see you every time, and each time it prompts me to do all I can, to make a difference, to step up and continue the legacy, which is funny, because I always hated your legacy, and how much you valued it.

And now my time us up, have I done enough? Will they tell my story?

Oh, I can't wait to see you again.

It's only a matter of time.


End file.
